


The gospel according to Mary Magdalene

by RosaLeoa



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Antagonist Dynamics, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Female Character of Color, Bisexual Spencer Reid, Black Character(s), Brazilian Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-adjacent, Case Fic, Come Eating, Conflicted Love Interest, Dark Academia, Demisexual Spencer Reid, Depictions of casual homophobia, Depictions of casual racism, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Drug Use, Dubious subject matter expertise, Ethical Dilemmas, F/F, F/M, Forbidden Love, I only keep what sparks joy, Immigrant Character, Immigration and Customs Enforcement mentioned, Interracial Relationship, Latina Character(s), Lesbian Emily Prentiss, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Marie Kondo approach to canon, Mentions Of Infidelity, Mentions of Prior Student/Professor relationship, Mentions of Rape, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, My inner scientist is crying but I'm not here to start another PhD, No Pregnancy, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paywalls can suck it, Pegging, Police Brutality, Police Procedural, Politics, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Racist Language, Research attempts were made, Research is Like Detective Work, Safe Sane and Consensual, Self-Indulgent, Serial Killers, Sex Work, Slow Burn, Sub Spencer Reid, The Real Self Indulgence Was The Gender Fuckery We Found Along The Way, Thriller, by horrible white people, mentions of torture, not a religious story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 112,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28716183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaLeoa/pseuds/RosaLeoa
Summary: When Doctor Amélia Ferreira, a Sociology post-doctorate fellow at Georgetown, finds herself a Person of Interest in a murder, she will need to rediscover herself and find the strength to survive.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 70
Kudos: 82





	1. Into the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> Hello people, this is my first work for Criminal Minds, although I've been a long time fan. I've never been to the US, so cut me some slack if there's problems with cultural things. I've been imagining this story for a long time now and I decided to write it just for the kicks (isn't this what fandom culture should be?). I hope you like it.
> 
> I would like to thank Jackie for being such a great Beta :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a broke South American PhD candidate and I set up [this Ko-Fi](https://ko-fi.com/nerdleoa) to anyone who wants to give a treat to my cats or buy me coffee in these difficult times.

Her neck hurt a lot when Mia woke up, face covered in drool and glasses crooked on her face from having dozed off at her bureau in the living room. The lenses were dirty from being pressed against her face all night and there was a stain in the book she had used as a pillow. She had just a few days left to finish writing her proposal to get an extension on her grant in Georgetown and those crucial moments in her work life always made her heart beat like crazy, even if her Green Card was up to date.

It was a chilly Autumn day and someone had been ringing the doorbell non-stop for a couple of minutes now. Mia cleaned her glasses on her sweater and rubbed her face on her sleeve, trying to look less like a crazy person. It was probably Charlotte. These days, she seemed to always be forgetting her keys.

"I'm coming. I'm coming. Damn it, Charlie, you will make Mrs. Simmons complain about noise again. It's only seven a.m." She took a sip of the coffee in the mug she had left on the table before walking to the door. It was horrible and cold. Mia needed Charlotte to spend more time at home so she could justify the purchase of the expensive Brazilian coffee she loved so much, instead of saving her money and buying the store-brand one.

She opened the peephole, still dizzy and massaging her stiff neck, and realized that it wasn't Charlotte who waited for her on the other side of the door. Two people stood there: a really tall blonde guy and a very skinny black woman with straightened hair. Mia's gut told her that they were Law Enforcement even before they had their FBI IDs held on her eye level. She couldn't read what was on the IDs, but she could see the seal and how they looked legit. She took out her phone and started recording before speaking.

"Good morning, how may I help you?" She asked through the door, trying to use her whitest and most polished accent possible.

"Ms. Amelie Herrera?" The black woman asked. "I'm Doctor Tara Lewis, and this is Doctor Spencer Reid, we are Special Agents with the FBI."

"I'm not Amelie Herrera. I'm sorry, but there's no one with that name here."

They looked confused for a moment.

"Isn't this  2901 M Street ?" Doctor Lewis insisted. The blonde guy, Doctor Reid, took a step back on the stairs and seemed to be taking a second look at the door. The townhouse was painted in eggshell white, with dark wood on the doors and windows. 

"Yes," Mia answered her.

"And who are you?" The blonde guy asked.

"Not Amelie Herrera," Mia was feeling anxious with this, besides being really tired. She got her phone, pressed pause on the recording, and texted Eleanor, informing her of what was happening, and started to record again.

She took another sip of the horrible coffee and made a face with its bitterness on her tongue.

"She's listed as Ms.  Bradford's roommate, so I would have to insist and ask who you are once more," the blonde one demanded. He seemed flustered. Mia didn't like when Law Enforcement officers lost their temper around her. Things never ended well.

"I'm Doctor Amélia Ferreira and I live here," Mia answered, after verifying that their badges looked legit and texting the pictures she took of them to Eleanor.

They both exchanged The Look on the other side of the door. Mia called it "the annoyed gringo look,” the one all of them gave her when she refused to answer when they spoke to her in Spanish or called her by the wrong name. When she was being "feisty" or "headstrong" in their eyes.

"Doctor Herrera," Doctor Lewis started, but Mia interrupted her.

" _ Ferreira _ ." If they were immigrants or retail workers, Mia wouldn't make such a point in correcting them. Even Mrs. Simmons would call her "Doctor Mia" and she didn't mind, but they were FBI.

First, if they decided to arrest Mia for some reason, it would be important that the paperwork trail had her correct name. Secondly, she would rather eat her shoes than gratuitously cut some slack to FBI agents at 7 a.m.

"Doctor Ferreira, could you please open the door. We need to talk to you about Ms. Bradford."

This made a cold feeling settle in Mia's stomach. It wasn't about her, her visa, or her work. But, still, what kind of mess did Charlie get into this time and why were the Feds at their place? Should she try to find Charlie's family lawyer? Did Browne tell her to not use the office Charlie's parents kept on retainer for "authenticity" on her research or something?

Mia opened the door, calling Eleanor on her phone and putting the call on speaker.

"Hey, Ames, what's going on?" Eleanor's sleepy voice came on the phone.

"Good morning, Ellie, I'm here at my doorstep with two FBI agents and they're here to discuss something about Charlotte. Their names are Doctor Tara Lewis and Doctor Spencer Reid and you have their ID infos on our IMs." The blonde agent had a frown on his face. He was still standing two steps behind the woman on the stairs, and his face was at Amélia's level. "Agents, I have on the phone Ms. Eleanor Adeoye, my lawyer."

"Good morning, Agents. The early bird catches the worm, right?" Eleanor joked. "How can we help you?"

"A week ago, a caucasian female body was found in the woods in Fairfax," Doctor Reid answered.

Mia vaguely remembered this case, she saw it on Twitter, but didn't click on the story to read because she would always get emotional when women were murdered like that and she had a deadline to meet. She would catch up on it when Charlotte finished her month-long incursion in the field and came back home. What she had seen of the story all indicated that this girl was another of Charlie's informants. Still, the FBI presence on Mia's doorstep made no sense. Were they trying to find Charlie to interview her? Had Charlie been arrested?

"Local police took a while to ID the victim because she was without her purse and her body was in a pretty rough shape." Doctor Lewis gave Doctor Reid a stern look of reprehension and Mia was grateful for it; she didn't need to know any gory details of this random girl's death before breakfast.

"Yesterday, they were able to get a positive match for her dental records and the case was transferred to the FBI. We still need a DNA test to confirm it, but her body has every correspondence to her medical file. We are fairly certain; her parents have claimed the body this morning." It was Doctor Lewis who took the lead in this final part. She had a very calming voice and an assuring body language.

"Wow, I'm glad for them, I guess. And how can I be of any assistance?" Mia suppressed a yawn and considered how bad it would be to take one more sip of the coffee she had left on the small table by the door, inside the house.

"Doctor Ferreira, the murder victim from Fairfax is Ms. Charlotte Bradford." Mia listened to the words that left Doctor Lewis' mouth, but they made no sense. She laughed.

Mia heard Eleanor's muffled "oh my god" on the phone, but she ignored her. How could she take this seriously?

"Is this some sort of prank?" She asked them, trying to understand how their IDs seemed so realistic when they were clearly actors. "Did Charlie hire you to come here and say this? Why would she do it? That's… That's horribly crass of you."

Mia took a step back, inside the house, and started looking at both sides of the street. Where were the cameras?

"Charlotte! Charlotte, I don't think this is funny!" She screamed. "Come out from wherever you're hiding! A girl is dead, Charlie, how can you use this for fun?!"

"Doctor Ferreira, we guarantee you this is not a joke and we are not actors. Your roommate, Ms. Charlotte Bradford died a week ago and, today, at 5 a.m., her parents, Laura and Richard, have made a positive ID of the birthmark on her knee." Doctor Reid was speaking now, and he was coming closer to Mia. The whole house seemed to be shrinking around her. She couldn't breathe.

"No. No, this is not true. It's not," she said, very firmly, refusing to start crying. Why would she cry? It was a ridiculous prank. "This is preposterous, I want you both out of my house!" She tried to slam the door on Doctor Reid's face, but he held it with his feet. His eyes were brown, looking directly at Mia.

"Love, Mia, I'm on my way. Please, agents, wait for me to arrive." Eleanor's voice came on the phone, shaking. Was Eleanor crying? Why should she cry? Eleanor hung up and Mia opened the IM and started to send an audio to Charlotte.

"Charlie, where are you? Why are there FBI agents at my door saying you're dead? This is ridiculous. I know you don't like when I use your field work number to call, but you need to get back to me ASAP. I'm kind of panicking and… Charlotte, where are you?"

"Doctor Ferreira…" He entered the house, the other one was right behind him. Mia was shaking and she couldn't breathe. She was going to send another text to Charlotte. This was absurd. "She's gone. She's dead."

"No, she's not. She's not." Mia remembered the headline picture of the body covered with a canvas in an area delimited with yellow tape. That was not Charlotte. Charlotte wouldn't die like that. Not Charlotte.

Doctor Lewis opened a picture on her phone and showed it to her. It was Charlotte's knee. With the birthmark and the crescent moon scar from when she was 10. It was Charlotte's knee.

"Doctor Ferreira, she's dead," was the last sentence that made sense for Mia before she started screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first: I'm trying REALLY HARD to make Spencer sound as smart as he should. For a few reasons, rewatching Criminal Minds and quoting things he already said is not possible (it's not available in my country for streaming, I don't have cable, and p!r4cy is out of question in the moment). That being said, I owe Jackie EVERYTHING for his smortness here. If you want to help me in this quest, come say hi [on Twitter!](https://twitter.com/nerd_leoa)  
> As stated above, I can't rewatch the chapters now, and it's been a while since I last watched the show. So, I found out that my characters' choice for this case DO NOT match the cast present in Season 10 (2015). Forgive me, readers, for I have sinned. I chose the characters totally based on "who are my favorite babies?" and the year based on "what was the last year Brazil wasn't on fire?". As stated in the tags, this is a "canon adjacent" work and my approach here to canon is very Marie Kondo-like. As in, I'm only keeping what brings joy. Please don't give up on me!


	2. Bright star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer observes Amélia and thinks about the case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The second star to the right  
> Shines with a light that's rare  
> And if it's Never Land you need  
> Its light will lead you there"
> 
> A special thanks to all my moots who are helping me develop this story. Caffeinated Jedi, JJ, Katie, Magic and Monsters, Soli, Ciça, Lune, and, of course my Brazilian loves.

To say Doctor Amélia Ferreira got emotional at the news of her roommate's death would be an understatement. She went from very composed ― even though she was wearing a very wrinkly pair of sweatpants and a sweater with a few holes and a coffee stain ― to literal shock. Spencer had to hold her when her knees faltered after seeing the picture on Tara's phone. She was shaking so much that her phone fell on the beautiful area rug that occupied most of the townhouse entryway.

He had been working on this case for approximately twelve hours and he already knew it was going to be a hard one. Richard Bradford II, Richard Bradford III's father and Charlotte's grandfather, sold his auto parts factory to Ford in 1954 and multiplied his fortune in the stock market for all the years to come. He lived in his huge estate in Massachusetts, near Boston, where Charlotte went to college and got her Social Sciences degree. His wife, Laura Bradford, née Laura Williams, came from a less powerful, but equally old, family and her beauty made her a model for a while in the 1980s.

Charlotte was small, she was only 5’3” and weighed less than 100lbs. Her naturally brown hair had been blond for about a year prior to her death. In the pictures Penelope found of her on social media, Spencer could see that she had beautiful blue eyes and a big and kind smile. Her volume of posting had significantly decreased in the past 10 months, focusing mainly on her cat, Salem, and group pictures with her friends where her face didn't appear very well.

When Spencer was in the morgue, watching JJ comfort Mr. and Mrs. Bradford, Penelope found out why Charlotte had changed her life so much in the short span of a year and how she had ended up mutilated and dead in a torn up sparkly and short dress in the woods of Fairfax, probably. She had been working as a high-end escort during that time. Which made no sense, because her finances were up to date. She was still living in the townhouse her parents bought, renovated, and furnished for her; her trust fund still gave her an income of over $50,000.00 a month; she was still a PhD student in the department of Urban Anthropology at Georgetown. Why was she doing this with her life?

Spencer started to look up papers Charlotte might have written and found out that her approved thesis proposal had been named "Cast the first stone: an ethnography of the world of luxury sex work in the DC area." He read a term paper of her Master's that had been made available on the Ethnographical Methods 103 syllabus, by Professor Thomas Browne, who, according to the department website, was Charlotte's advisor.

In her paper, Charlotte talked about participant observation and how important it was for an Anthropologist to "become a native," even in Urban Anthropology, to be able to achieve what she called "a truly Anthropological point of view." "Becoming a native," from what Spencer remembered of his Sociology classes in undergrad, had been popularized in the 1960s by one of the School of Chicago's heirs, Doctor Howard Becker, and his work "Outsiders" about drug use amongst urban youth in the U.S.

So, in the name of science, besides writing about escorts, this multimillionaire Bostonian heiress was also working as one. And this apparently got her killed.

That or someone else, who knew her well and was aware of her research, took advantage of her dangerous field of work and murdered her with special touches of sadism to throw off the investigation. There were inconsistencies in the scene where she had been found. Since the local police had taken so long to mobilize the FBI and they had dealt with a small hurricane that past week, Spencer and the rest of the BAU could only see it through CSI photos and the footage some tabloid reporters collected of it. It was far from ideal, but it was enough for them to realize that Charlotte hadn't been murdered in those woods and that several elements of the scene appeared to be out-of-place.

Even though Charlotte had been murdered by strangulation, as her broken hyoid suggested, she had been stabbed multiple times post-mortem. Whoever disposed of her body didn't bury her and it was this, along with leaving her too close to a hiking trail, that led Charlotte's body to be found. They had burned her body, but the ground of the disposal site was wet and the fire didn't catch on properly, being enough to destroy her face and her hands, but not enough to erase the birthmark and the scar on her right knee.

Doctor Ferreira knew nothing of this. She had been crying and screaming non-stop for a few minutes. At first in Spencer's arms, clutching to him as if he could bring Charlotte back to her. And then Tara intervened and guided the woman to the large gray couch in the living room.

Shortly after, a huge black cat, that weighed over 12lbs, entered the room and jumped on Doctor Amélia's lap, rubbing his face against her hands and chest and gently purring when she mindlessly started scratching its ears.

"Do you take any medication?" Tara asked her, holding her face with both hands and trying to make Doctor Ferreira focus.

She drew a big shaky breath and shook her head negatively, immediately going back to the heartbroken sobs like the screams of a small child. What was the relationship of those women like for her to be so completely untethered with those news?

"Spencer, go to her kitchen and get a glass of water for her." He didn't mind letting Tara assume control of the situation.

Spencer was never good with living victims and Tara was. Besides, for a reason he couldn't pinpoint, it was especially hard to be detached that morning. Maybe it was his lack of sleep. Maybe it was the big dark doe eyes Doctor Ferreira had, full of fight and contempt when she opened the door for them, now turned into a babbling mess.

He could hear Tara speaking to her in a calming voice while the tap was running, filling the glass he found in one of the cabinet doors. When Spencer walked back, the Brazilian Sociologist had stopped screaming and was pressing her knees together against her chest. Fat tears still silently streamed down her face. He stood beside her and offered the glass, which she took without thanking him. The cat was now laying on her lap, with its green eyes closed, satisfied.

Now that she was quiet, Spencer could resume analyzing her. Her skin was tanned. Not as dark as Tara's, but at least as dark as Luke's. Her face was round with a pointy chin and her nose was small and slender, slightly round at the end, now puffy and red with the snot and the tears. Her hair was chestnut brown with a few dark golden strands, as if it was a memory of the summer that had died, and it fell over her shoulders in an entangled mess of waves and loose curls. Her mouth had the shape of a cupid's bow, with full lips and slightly round white teeth. Her thick and dark eyelashes were so long that Spencer could see the path the tears took on them before heavily dropping onto her lap. A beautiful woman, to say the least.

"We need to ask you some questions about Ms. Bradford," Spencer tried to get things back on track. They had a lot of ground to cover and Charlotte's murderer had a 7 day advantage over them.

Also, although Doctor Ferreira's shock and trauma seemed genuine, Spencer had met a significant number of disturbed individuals able to act that way even if they were the unsub they were looking for. It was highly unlikely that Doctor Amélia Ferreira would have acted alone, had she been the murderer, or did it herself. There was evidence of rape on Charlotte's body, the type that can only be committed by a cisgender man. In addition to this, even though Doctor Ferreira was about 5.5 inches taller than Charlotte, she didn't seem to have the body strength to drag the girl's corpse out of the place where she was murdered into an off-track part of the woods in Fairfax. She didn't even have a car to do so. No, if Doctor Ferreira was involved, she had at least one accomplice.

The crying woman seemed to focus her gaze on Spencer and the fire from before appeared again. Diminished, but there.

"No," she said, and her voice was hoarse.

"Excuse me?"

She took a sip of water before speaking again.

"I won't answer any questions without the presence of my lawyer."

"Doctor, you understand that you're currently not a suspect and we need to talk to the person who lived with Charlotte to retrace her last steps and catch her killer?" Tara spoke again. She was sitting on a chair, pulled from the dinner table to be in front of the couch when she was calming Ferreira a few moments before.

"And I will help you with that as best as possible. When my lawyer arrives. If you can't wait here for her, leave your card and we can schedule an interview at the Bureau's office."

Spencer frowned at her.

"We need to examine the house, eliminate it as a crime scene. And we also need to analyze Charlotte's things; they're part of the investigation now."

"So we wait for Ms. Adeoye." She cleaned her face with her hands, which were still shaking. "I would offer you coffee, but I feel like I wouldn't be able to stand if I tried to move from this couch."

The living room was big, with another rug dominating the center of it, partially covering the well preserved hardwood floor. Spencer didn't know much about interior design. From his limited knowledge on the subject, he could see that most of the furniture looked expensive, which indicated that it belonged to Charlotte.

That morning, Garcia had done some quick research about Doctor Amélia Ferreira Rodriguez. Not that Spencer needed it, but he wouldn't tell his colleagues that, all this time, he had been watching Amélia Ferreira from a distance, memorizing the newspaper articles about her since she had spoken to the UN General Assembly at the age of 12, with a strong accent, but a clear voice, remembering the adults of the millions of refugee children in the world and how her father had been one of them. Eduardo Souza Rodriguez was the son of an activist, politically disappeared during the Brazilian dictatorship in 1969, which meant Eduardo spent most of his childhood in clandestiny or as an expatriate. A child without a passport, first in Chile, then in France.

Besides the eloquence in the words of a 12 year-old speaking her second language, what captured 18 year-old Spencer's attention in that girl was the fact that, according to the paper, Amélia was in a preparatory High School, with a full scholarship of merit. Upon researching her more, Spencer found out that she adored playing chess as a hobby and she met most of her friends in chess club and the Star Trek fan club, where she was secretary of the San Francisco chapter. Spencer was very lonely back then ― this was before he got into the BAU ― and he felt a strange sort of kinship to that scrawny girl who smiled, despite her braces, in the newspapers.

Four years later, Amélia was news again. She was accepted to all of the big name universities, and chose to go to Berkeley. She came from a middle class Brazilian family. Her father went from child refugee to Human Rights lawyer and had been the first in his family to get a college degree. Her mother, Margarida Albuquerque Ferreira, was an engineer and came to the US in 1998 to work for Microsoft. Amélia was eleven years-old when they moved to San Francisco. Amélia finished school at fifteen and was accepted at Berkeley with a full-ride after a year dedicated to working with her father in a non-profit for undocumented immigrants.

During college, she divided her time between studies and organizing anti-Bush protests. After she almost got her parents deported, Amélia's activism seemed to have faded out. That is, until she was accepted as a postgraduate student in 2006 at NYU, skipping her Master's and going straight to a PhD thesis by recommendation of the advisory committee, and writing a thesis on grassroots activism against ICE. She took five years to finish her thesis, mostly due to being constantly accused of doing "militant work" and "pseudoscience." In 2015, Amélia was considered an unfulfilled promise, a burned out star.

Spencer read every single one of her papers when she published them. Even though he disagreed with a lot and thought that Amélia ― whom he fantasized about being his friend if they happened to meet ― was too radical in her positions, he couldn't deny her brilliance. The fact that Amélia wasn't one of the great intellectual names of her generation yet felt, to Spencer, almost like a personal defeat.

Her work gave a human face to immigrants. Not only that, but it exposed undeniable truths about the racist origins of America and how the FBI was created to persecute and imprison people of color and undesirable political adversaries. The way she wrote had a mix of a literary style, using well delineated metaphors, and passionate political speech. The first line of her thesis, "I won't pretend to write an apolitical truth because there is no such thing. Academia is and always has been a part of society", would occasionally pop into Spencer's thoughts randomly. He believed that this line was proof that, no matter how long it had been, she was still the same 12 year-old girl urging the world to stop the wars in the name of the children.

Since they would have to wait due to her refusal to cooperate with the investigation without her lawyer present ― what was she hiding? ― Spencer decided to pass the time re-reading her papers on his phone and see if some of them would help him understand her better, maybe make her be less hostile towards them.

Spencer had almost finished reading Amélia's thesis when Eleanor arrived. She was a dark skinned black woman, without her heels she was probably shorter than Amélia, with buzzed natural hair, big dark eyes, and full thick lips. Her beautiful face was really serious and she appeared to have cried on the way there. Even so, she was dressed in an elegant bright yellow pantsuit and nude stilettos, and she wore delicate golden jewelry and her makeup was business-like. You would have to be a fool to not take her seriously.

The first thing she did after a quick introduction to Spencer and Tara was hold Amélia in her arms and let her cry some more.

"It's all right now, Ames, you will be alright," she shushed against Amélia's hair over and over, like a prayer.

After a while, Amélia was curled up on the couch and silent again. The cat, who had left the room when Eleanor arrived, came back from the kitchen and settled itself on Amélia's hip. That was when Eleanor really looked at Spencer and Tara.

"So, agents, how can I help you right now?" Her voice was suddenly business-like and there was no doubt she was a lawyer.

"We need to interview Doctor Ferreira…"

"I'm sorry, but, as you can see, my client is unavailable for questions at the moment. You can give me your contact info and I'll schedule a meeting at the BAU as soon as possible." She interrupted Tara without any hesitation. "Is there anything else that you need at this moment?"

"We need to analyze Charlotte's room, take a look at her things as she left them," Spencer pleaded.

"All right, then. Please, follow me."

Charlotte's room was on the second floor of the house. It had glass doors that opened to a small balcony and a king sized bed that no one had slept in for a while besides the cat, judging by the black fur scattered over the comforter. There were framed pictures on the walls, personal and artistic ones. Everything was decorated in light colors, mostly shades of white and blue, from the off-white walls to the light-blue throw pillows on the bed. A Yale sweatshirt, Charlotte's alma mater, was folded over an ottoman at the end of the bed.

"Didn't she have a personal computer? A laptop or something?" Tara asked Eleanor, also noticing the absence of a bureau and office supplies in the room.

"Charlotte has an office down the hall. I mean, had." Eleanor ran a hand over her hair and sighed. Then she straightened her shoulders again and kept talking. "Do you want to go there now or later?"

"I could go there while Doctor Lewis keeps working here," Spencer suggested. 

"Absolutely not. You will both stay under my supervision for the entire time of this visit. You're authorized to look at Charlotte's things and Charlotte's things only, and I'll make sure that's what happens here today." She was stern and had her arms crossed on her chest when she said this.

"Ms. Adeoye, whatever it is your client trying to hide, the FBI will find out during our investigation and it would be better for all of us if she would just cooperate." Tara was annoyed now. Spencer was starting to get annoyed too. Didn't these people want them to do the best job possible?

"Let me be perfectly clear, Doctor Lewis. My client is within her rights to protect her own privacy and she _is_ cooperating with your investigation. She opened her house to you, she allowed you to search the place for clues, and she will give you an interview as soon as she's able to. So I will ask you again: do you think you're finished with this room or do you need more time here?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bright star  
> -Keats
> 
> Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—  
> Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night  
> And watching, with eternal lids apart,  
> Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,  
> The moving waters at their priestlike task  
> Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,  
> Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask  
> Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—  
> No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,  
> Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,  
> To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,  
> Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,  
> Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,  
> And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
> 
> Author's Notes:
> 
> [1] In the early hours of April 1st of 1964, [backed up by the CIA](https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/blar.12518), the Brazilian Armed Forces deposed the elected president, João Goulart, and installed a dictatorial regimen that lasted until 1985. Several political opponents were murdered and their bodies never showed up, creating the category of the [ "disappeared"](https://www.scielo.br/scielo.php?script=sci_arttext&pid=S1809-43412018000300507). Eduardo Rodriguez's story was inspired by real events. Que nunca se esqueça, que nunca mais aconteça.


	3. She who played with matches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one could suspect he gave her some kind of easy way out when she was cleared. If she was cleared. There was also that fear in his chest. The fear that his kindred spirit could betray him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "She drew one out. R-r-ratch! How it sputtered and burned! It made a warm, bright flame, like a little candle, as she held her hands over it; but it gave a strange light!"

Amélia had never been to the FBI’s headquarters before. She made a point in avoiding unnecessary interactions with the Law Enforcement in general and the FBI in particular since she was detained in 2005 during a demonstration in front of the UN building in New York. She had been taken to a room without windows by the FBI and no one spoke to her for four hours. When they finally showed up, the agent wanted her to give the names of the people who had invited her to the demonstration and threatened to deport her and her parents if she didn’t “collaborate.” What they didn’t know was that Eduardo Rodriguez had raised his daughter to never break in an interrogation. She had been schooled in keeping her cool and not falling for any bait. The only thing Amélia told the agent in front of her was “I want my lawyer.” Eventually he gave up and left her alone in the room, without food and with just a small bottle of water, until six in the morning when she was released without a single explanation. When they finally gave her phone back to her, there were several calls from her mother and texts informing her that Eduardo was in the hospital. The stress of thinking his daughter could vanish like his father and the guilt of having introduced her to the world of activism lead to a blood pressure crisis and a heart attack.

Almost losing her father made Amélia rethink her strategy. That was the reason she would be a lot more cautious when taking part in protests in the future. No more talking back to cops, no more throwing stones at shields. “Você pode estar pronta para sacrificar a sua vida pela revolução, Mia, mas está pronta para sacrificar a nossa?”, was the question her mother asked her that day. This question always reappeared in Mia’s mind when she had to fight the urge to spit in the face of an ICE agent during field work and the one that swirled in her head when she took the elevator accompanied by Eleanor, two days after the FBI agents told her Charlotte was dead.

That same day, Mia had called her therapist, who recommended a good and affordable psychiatrist, who prescribed her Klonopin to sleep and Xanax to function during this traumatic experience. Mia would still catch herself trying to wake herself up during random hours of the day, as if this was all an extremely bizarre and lucid nightmare. In the morning it seemed to be worse, because her foggy brain would forget that, somehow, she was living in a timeline in which Charlie was dead. No, not dead. Mia was living in a timeline in which Charlie had been _murdered_. She was a murder victim and someone destroyed her beautiful face to the point where she had to be identified by her dental records and the birthmark on her knee. Eleanor and her wife, Ewa, showed up at Mia’s house on the day she got the news, around 8 p.m., with a bunch of frozen food and alcohol. They put Mia’s DVD with the original Star Trek episodes on the TV and sat together on the couch, mostly in silence.

Mia was trying to focus on this memory instead of the one in the room without windows. Most of her good memories in her adult life involved Charlotte. Most of her good memories before that involved her parents. She tried to focus on remembering Lt. Uhura and Spock’s lines and breathing without hyperventilating. Eleanor had showed up at her house an hour and a half before they had to leave for her appointment to help Mia get dressed.

It’s not that Mia didn’t know how important it was to go to an interview at Quantico not looking like a crazy person. Especially if you’re going to talk to the Behavioral Analysis Unit. But _caring_ about her appearance, when she could barely care enough to eat when she felt hunger, was a lot. So she let Eleanor treat her like a doll. Ellie made Mia blow dry her hair and make it straight after showering, to make her look “more like a white girl.” Not that Mia could ever be seen as white, not in the U.S. Mia had makeup she never used, which Eleanor put on her face in a simple look. She also made Mia wear a simple blue dress and instructed her not to roll her eyes at the agents or cross her arms while speaking to them. “It’s important that we don’t give a single reason for them to focus on you.”

Mia wasn’t a criminal mastermind or anything. Then again, she wasn’t the most law-abiding person in the world either. Even before DC legalized possession of marijuana, she and Charlotte had maintained a small closet in the basement with a few plants for themselves. But the most potentially troubling of it all was the identity of some of Mia’s informants, who were undocumented in the U.S. and some of them had been involved in illegal activities of different levels. She couldn’t suddenly become a target for the FBI and put them at risk.

And there was always that concern in the back of her mind. The constant reminder that, no matter her PhD or how straight her hair was or how politely she spoke to the cops, Mia was still Brazilian, brown, and a leftist public figure. She had written dozens of pages denouncing the FBI. She knew how the system could work, if those agents had an agenda to fulfill. It was not like Charlotte’s family would protect her or vouch for her. In their eyes, Mia was nothing more than a charity case. A stray Charlotte took in from the streets, like Salem. They had no idea of the truth.

Also, “the truth” was… complicated, to say the least.

The blonde detective, Doctor Reid, was waiting for them by the glass doors of the bullpen. He had a coffee mug in his hands and gave them a polite smile before speaking mostly with Eleanor and guiding them to an interview room. It was nothing like the room in New York. It had a large window looking out at the woods surrounding Quantico and a huge see-through glass wall separating the room from the hallway. The other walls were lined with wood panels and the chairs surrounding the conference table looked comfortable. There was also a couch in the room, but Mia wanted to look stable and in control that day, so she sat in an office chair, across from Doctor Lewis, who was already seated.

“Good morning, Doctor Ferreira, Ms. Adeoye,” Lewis was completely butchering her name, but at least she could hear the “f” in the beginning of it now. If this was a social setting ― as if there was a scenario in which Mia would be friendly in a social setting with the FBI ― she would ask them to call her by her first name by now. Even at the university, she found this excessive formality kind of over the top, but she knew it was important. It was a way for them to remember to respect her, even if just a little bit.

“Doctor Lewis, good morning. Like I promised, here we are.” Eleanor had a tense smile on her lips.

Mia knew Ellie was doing her a huge favor in helping her with this whole process. Ellie was an Immigration Attorney, not a Criminal one. But Mia didn’t personally know any Criminal Law people and she had no money to pay for one. Even without paying rent for the past three years and being one of the few lucky people who managed to do a PhD without getting student loans, thanks to her scholarship, Mia only had enough in savings to support her for about 4 to 5 months if her grant renewal was rejected and she was evicted. Charlotte’s mother’s assistant had gotten in touch with her the day before to schedule a meeting with the Bradfords in the house. They were supposed to be there by tea time. Mia expected them to discuss her living arrangement and ask for Charlotte’s things back as soon as the FBI authorized removing them from the house.

“So, Doctor Ferreira, the idea for this interview is to be as relaxed as possible. We are interested in assembling a picture of who Charlotte was as a person, what the people around her thought of her, how were her relationships…” Apparently, Doctor Lewis was going to be the one in charge of the interview.

Doctor Reid sat beside Lewis and, although his face was schooled to be politely neutral, he couldn’t stop his hands from fidgeting with a small rubber band. Mia wanted to fidget too, but it could be a bad idea to be so obviously anxious in front of them. Instead, she allowed herself to be distracted by Reid’s big hands with long fingers. He was a tall man, about 15cm taller than her, but his frame was slender, which made him look smaller than he was. Paying real attention to him now, Mia could see that he could probably engulf her if he came close enough. She realized _what_ she was thinking and immediately turned her face to Doctor Lewis.

“Right. Yeah. I’m ready, we can begin the interview,” she told Doctor Lewis.

“So, can you tell me how long you had been living with Ms. Bradford?”

“Two years. I moved in in the Summer of 2013.”

“And you’ve known her since…?”

“The Fall of 2011, when I moved to DC for my fellowship. She was doing her Master’s at Georgetown.”

“And how would you describe your relationship with Ms. Bradford?”

“She was my friend. One of the best.” This made the agents exchange a look in front of her. Why?

“Doctor Ferreira, we have had access to Ms. Bradford’s phone and her social media… We know about your relationship.”

“What? The fact that she called me ‘her wife’ on Facebook? That’s because we lived together and I was the person who mostly cooked and nagged her to do the chores and…” Eleanor put her hand over Mia’s, making her stop talking.

“Could you elaborate on what you are referring to, Doctor Lewis?” Eleanor asked.

Lewis put her tablet on the table between them and opened a series of pictures. Of Mia and Charlie. From 2011 and 12. If they had access to _everything_ , then… Her face was suddenly very hot.

“If you already know it all, why am I here?” She sounded more aggressive than she was planning and she immediately regretted it. She took a deep breath, trying to center herself again. She thought of the beach in Rio. The waves hitting the shore in Copacabana in a steady rhythm. “What I mean is… This is a very difficult time for me and you seem to have the full picture of my participation in Charlie’s life at your disposal. So, what could I possibly add that you don’t already have, Doctor Lewis?”

“We don’t know it all, Doctor Ferreira. We don’t know your feelings, your interpretations of the facts. Here at the BAU, we believe that the human component is crucial to understand the events we are investigating.”

“But you _do_ know my feelings. You know that I was in love with Charlotte. You know that her parents have no idea that she’s bisexual. You know that we broke up amicably after dating for seven months and that our bond got stronger than ever after this.”

“How did you end up moving in together?”

“You saw our texts. My former roommate was getting married and I had nowhere to go, no money, nothing. Two years ago, my parents were in financial trouble in Brazil, my grandmother got very sick, and I was sending most of my money to them. That was when Charlie invited me to go live with her, free of rent.”

“And how did it make you feel, going to live with your ex?”

Mia took another deep breath before answering to Doctor Lewis.

“Grateful for having made such a friend,” was her controlled answer. “We actually worked along pretty well on the house. I like cats, when she brought Salem in, I felt happy to have him there. Charlie is more organized than I am, I like to cook more than her…”

Doctor Lewis agreed with her head, scribbling something in her notebook before asking more.

“And dating?”

“What?”

“How would you describe her dating life? Did she have someone in her life?”

Mia pursed her lips and looked at Eleanor. They knew this question would come.

“Yes.” Silence stretched in the room. Didn’t they already know this? “Yes, she was having an affair with Professor Thomas Browne.”

“Her advisor?” Doctor Reid intervened. “According to Georgetown’s Faculty Handbook, this is off-limits.”

“Yes. And, as you might know already, he’s married and 30 years older than her. He has a daughter my age.” There was contempt in her voice. Eleanor had warned her to be restrained when speaking about Charlie and Browne’s affair, but Amélia was failing miserably on the task. “Don’t you know this all already?”

“No, not really. We haven’t found a shred of evidence of this relationship in Ms. Bradford’s notebooks or her recovered texts.” Since he was speaking to her, Mia had to turn her head and face the man in front of her again. He wouldn’t be more than 35, and his hair had little messy waves around his face. There was something almost androgynous to his full lips and small nose.

“I think they used the secret chat on Telegram to talk about the more controversial aspects of Charlotte’s research and their affair. There’s a self-destruct timer on the app. Charlie grew up with politicians around her, she was constantly worrying about scandals.”

“What type of scandals?” He asked.

Unlike Doctor Lewis, there was something intense in the way Doctor Reid focused his gaze on Amélia. It made her feel naked.

“Sexual ones.” It was no big deal saying this. Amélia meant no double entendre, but, still, Reid’s cheeks got subtly pink. Amélia was intrigued. “She thought that he is some sort of unrecognized genius and that he’s destined to be the next Franz Boas or something. I mean, he is 56, it’s not like it couldn’t happen, but…”

“You don’t think that he is that good?” Lewis asked, catching Mia’s attention again.

“What do I know? He is a tenured Professor and I’m just a postdoctoral fellow.” Mia shrugged.

“There’s no need for false modesty, Doctor Ferreira. I believe that everyone in this room knows your trajectory.” Was Doctor Lewis goading or praising her?

Anyhow, Amélia laughed, bitter.

“Being a former child prodigy is way less impressive when you’re an adult who didn’t fulfill your ‘manifest destiny,’ Doctor Lewis.”

There was another beat of silence.

“But, to answer your question, no, I don’t think that Thomas Browne is that good. I think that he had his last interesting thought in the 90s and that he refuses to catch up with the current discussions in Race and Colonialism theory. Charlotte doing sex work out of her own volition to prove to people she was more than daddy’s little girl and, as a bonus, horrify her parents didn’t made her understand any better the girls who come to the US with promises of working as models and see themselves trafficked. It’s not that her, Charlie’s, point of view about sex work is invalid. I think she has a lot of interesting thoughts, especially when she discusses how the criminalization empowers the human trafficking network. But this is the kind of thing that she could find out through research and interviews, not through the dates with the clients she went to.” 

“So, the way you feel about Charlotte’s boyfriend and their work, did it create tension between the two of you?” 

Mia bit her lower lip before answering Doctor Lewis.

“Charlie was an adult and we were just friends.”

“But you weren’t just friends, right?” Doctor Reid caught her attention again, opening a screen saving of Mia and Charlie’s IMs.

Mia’s contact was saved under “wifey” on Charlie’s phone. This made a huge lump form on Mia’s throat again, despite the Xanax she had taken in the morning before leaving her house. It was from two weeks before, and the last or second to last time Charlie texted her.

She avoided making contact when she was in the field to create a distance between who she was in her everyday life and Valerie Lamarr, the identity she had created for that work. It had been very weird to watch Charlie’s transformation in front of her eyes. From her understated and almost basic academic looks, with lots of layered clothes, messy buns, and bitten nails, Charlie became the woman her mother always dreamed of. She bleached her hair, did Pilates three times a week and ran every day, and put long almond-shaped acrylic nails on her fingers. When she would pack to go to the flat she shared with other five girls, she would change her designer clothes for tacky knock-offs and pack all the gifts her clients gave to her in her bag. The irony of it all was that Charlotte was making real money with this thing, way more money than Mia got every month from Georgetown.

“Can you imagine, peanut, if I saved up all this money and became a self-made woman from sex work? The scandal! My mom would _die_!” She would laugh, sitting on their couch carefully painting her nails, while Mia ate ramen for dinner for the second time that week and graded papers of undergrad students.

The texts Doctor Reid was showing to her in the present were mostly Mia venting about her frustration with her career and how it was maybe time to give up academia.

“i could go back to Brasil” Mia wrote.

“my parents did it.

i have no family here, no one would rly miss me”

Charlotte answered back with an expletive of emojis and memes being very dramatic and begging.

“noooooooo. don’t leave me!!!!!!!!!

it’s us against the world, babe

u and me we r gonna rule this town”

“charls, i’m trying to be serious here”

Charlotte sent an emoji huffing.

“fine, u wanna quit?

quit.

take a year to travel the world, meet new people,

reinvent yoself”

More emojis, this time of sparkles and islands and drinks.

“with what money, charls?????”

“how much do u need?”

“Charlotte…”

“no.

u wanna be serious

let’s be serious

how much do u need for ur sabbatical or whatever?

is 1 mil enough?”

“Charlotte!!!!!”

It was Mia’s time to send various shocked emojis.

“i’m dead ass serious here, babe

ur my light

my family

prolly the loml

i should have married you when i had the chance”

“charls, stop being dramatic, we know it wasn’t like that

we dated for 7 months 4 years ago

u have someone else now

i date people

...

sometimes

but the point is that we weren’t this R+J thing like u say

ur my best friend, tho

and I do love u

I’ll love u forever”

It had been almost 20 minutes before Charlotte replied again.

“we’ll talk when i’m back home next month

send me a picture of our gordo, I miss Salem

and, Mia,

i’m always serious when i say that i love u

pay attention to the doorbell, i ordered sushi 4 u!!!!”

“You weren’t just friends,” he insisted. His face was blurry and Mia could feel her lower lip quivering. She was trying to breathe normally. “Where were you on the night of September 15?”

“W… what?” Mia blinked several times, trying to understand what was happening.

“Between 7 p.m. and 3 a.m., can anyone vouch for your whereabouts?”

“Don’t answer that.” Eleanor intervened. “What’s going on here? You said she wasn’t a suspect and that this was a cordial interview.” She was talking to Doctor Lewis, her voice was filled with restrained anger.

Mia kept staring at Doctor Reid, breathing heavily. Why did she feel betrayed? What did she expect was going to happen there? He seemed nice, he seemed different. But he was just another cop. A gringo cop. She grabbed a paper tissue from her bag and cleaned her face, then started to destroy the tissue, contorting it in her lap. She couldn’t not fidget anymore.

“It’s just a formality,” Lewis said, trying to be cordial. “We need to eliminate her as a suspect.”

Mia had a very weak alibi and Eleanor knew that.

“I was home all night, writing this grant proposal that was due yesterday. I Skyped with my mother around 10 p.m., for like an hour, and went back to work and went to sleep at 3 a.m.”

“We will need your mother’s info to confirm your story.”

“Sure.” Mia was tired and feeling a migraine creeping in. She tried to discreetly massage her temples and breathe through the mouth.

“Do you have any more questions?” Eleanor asked, checking her small rosé-gold wristwatch. It was noon already.

“I think that, for now, we are done. Please, send Ms. Ferreira’s contact info to my email. If we have anything else to add or need to go to the house again, we will get in touch with you, Ms. Adeoye.” Doctor Lewis stood up and shook Eleanor and Amélia’s hands. When Mia shook Doctor Reid’s hand, she noticed it was clammy. Why would he be nervous?

***

“You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, Spencer,” Tara teased him while they watched Ms. Adeoye and Doctor Ferreira leave.

He turned to look at her. She had a knowing smile on her face.

“She’s a hostile witness.”

“She came to the BAU voluntarily and was answering the questions we posed to her as best as she could. You don’t seriously think she’s our unsub?” 

“She’s hiding something. I think she knows more than she wants us to know. Why does a witness need a lawyer?”

Tara shrugged. They were walking to the bullpen together.

“She’s not the most cooperative witness we have met, that I’ll agree, but I think that you would have got more out of her if you were more charming. You know, worked the whole ‘pretty boy’ thing.” She had a sly smile on her lips and gently elbowed him on his ribs.

He snorted.

“I couldn’t charm someone to save my life, Tara. I thought you knew that.”

“I don’t know, Spencer. That’s not what I see. And Doctor Ferreira seemed to be interested in your hands earlier today.”

Spencer felt his face getting red and started to walk faster.

“She… she’s a witness! And she was just watching my rubberband, she’s fidgety too. Or didn’t you see the mess she made with the tissue?”

Tara jogged to meet him and had her hands up in the air as a sign of defeat.

“Take it easy, Spence. I’m not saying that you should _date_ her, just that you should let her see you as human and feel more comfortable around you. This whole ‘bad cop’ thing doesn’t suit you.”

“Ok. Cool. Thanks. I’ll take your notes into consideration, Tara.” He took a turn to the right, headed towards the glass doors. “I’ll take my lunch break now, see you in an hour.”

Tara sighed.

“Fine, remember that later we have to meet with the team and compare notes. Luke and JJ are probably arriving soon from their visit to the apartment where she stayed when she was Valerie Lamarr.”

He waved at her without turning back. The problem with being surrounded by fantastic profilers all day every day is that his colleagues didn’t miss a thing. He was being unreasonably harsh with Amélia Ferreira. He needed to be. No one could know how much he wanted to believe her innocence. No one could suspect he gave her some kind of easy way out when she was cleared. If she was cleared. There was also that fear in his chest. The fear that his kindred spirit could betray him.

Because he knew they were connected by that sharp feeling of isolation that only former child prodigies experience. Because Garcia had told him that Amélia _could_ have skipped high school and gone straight to college at the age of 12, like him, and her mother wrote a letter to her school saying it was important to them that she had some sort of experience with other kids. That she knew more of herself and the world before making big decisions about herself in life. Garcia saw it too. How much Spencer and Amélia were alike. He hadn’t asked her for this information, she volunteered it herself to the rest of the team intrigued with another “girl genius.”

When Spencer exited the elevator, into the entrance lobby, he saw that Amélia was there, sitting on a bench in the corner and looking very pale. Luke was with her, speaking softly in Spanish and helping her drink water. They made a pretty picture together.

“What happened?” He asked Luke, getting closer to them.

“She was at the bus stop when I was leaving for lunch and then she fainted.” 

“Are you ok?” Spencer turned to her and almost touched her arm, but he restrained himself in time.

“It’s nothing. It’s just a small stress-induced migraine and the air is so dry today.” She had a hand covering her eyes and her glasses were folded on her lap.

“Where is Ms. Adeoye?”

“Ellie had to run. She has other clients and she asked me to take the bus to the subway. I’m fine. You both can go, agents.”

Ellie. Charls, Charlie… She was very tender with her friends, not hiding it in the pet names they had for each other. Eleanor had called her “Ames”, but Charlotte called her “Mia.” Was it due to the double entendre?

“Nonsense. I’m sorry, but I’m not letting you leave like that.” She opened her mouth to protest, but Luke didn’t let her. “You were still on FBI property. If I leave you here and you faint again and injure yourself while you’re under our responsibility, your lawyer would sue us all.”

She let out a small laugh to this. Luke had his big crooked smile on his lips while speaking with her. A pretty picture indeed. Spencer was just standing there, not knowing what to do with himself.

“Vamos, chica, I’ll drive you home.” Luke got up from where he was crouching on the floor and offered his hand to her.

“I live an hour and a half from here!” She protested. “Your boss will kill you if you take a three hour lunch break.”

“I’ll explain to her what happened. I’m sure they won’t mind if Luke was a little late to our meeting because he was caring for a witness.” Spencer tried to help, but she looked at him like he was some bug on her windshield.

“Wait a minute, Doc, you have to come with us. I can’t stay alone with a witness like that.” Luke put a hand on Spencer’s shoulder when he said this.

“Absolutely not.” She put on her glasses and stood up, resolute. “I thank you very much for your offer, but I’m declining it. I’m taking the bus. Good day, agents.” She nodded as a manner of goodbye, but the sudden movement made her dizzy again. Spencer held her by her elbow, trying to offer support.

Forty-eight hours ago, she had cried in his arms. Now that she was clear-headed, she hated him to the point of preferring to faint in the middle of the street to spending an hour and a half in a car with him. When she looked at him, she let out a shaky breath.

“If we can’t take you home, please, at least come back with us to the BAU floor and rest on one of our couches until you feel strong enough to go.” Spencer was trying it. The honey. Like Tara said. He didn’t have Luke’s crooked smile or Tara’s reassuring voice, but he could try to show her she shouldn’t be afraid.

“Ugh, fine,” she mumbled, grumpy.

They walked back together to the elevator. Neither Spencer nor Luke were touching her, but they were close by, in case she fell.

She lay down on a couch in an empty interviewing room and Spencer turned out the lights there, for her migraine. He came back about half an hour later, with a can of Coke, a cheeseburger, and some fries from the cart across the street.

She appeared to be sleeping. He crouched close to the couch and gently touched her shoulder. She opened up her eyes and sat up, looking very confused at him. At least from what Spencer could discern from her expression in the semi-dark room. The only light came from the windows, and Luke had closed the curtains for her when they left Amélia in the room.

“Hey, uh, migraines get better with caffeine and carbs.”

“... Thanks. How much do I owe you?” She took the paper bag from Spencer’s hands.

“It’s nothing.”

She kept staring at him.

“I can’t owe you, Doctor Reid.”

“It was just a few bucks, you don’t owe me anything.”

She seemed she was going to say something else, but then she took a bite of the burger and moaned faintly. Spencer got up really fast and bolted to the door.

“Wait. How did you know?”

His hand was on the doorknob. He could just pretend he hadn’t understood her question and leave.

“I studied Ms. Bradford’s texts. You repeated your order a few times to her. Cheeseburger on toasted sesame buns, crispy bacon, and double the pickles…”

“...With a side of curly fries. Should I be worried that you memorized it about me?”

Spencer was grateful for the darkness in the room and for being with his back turned to her, because he was blushing like a boy.

“I have an eidetic memory. It’s not personal, I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable.” He opened the door.

“Thanks.” But he didn’t turn back to her before leaving. He couldn’t face her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:
> 
> [1] "You might be ready to sacrifice your life in the name of the Revolution, Mia, but are you ready to sacrifice ours?"


	4. mors tua, vita mea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What on Earth had Charlotte done?

When she left home in the morning, Mia had every intent to hold on to the good girl look Eleanor crafted for her interview at the FBI until it was time to meet Mr. and Mrs. Bradford. But her makeup got smudged from when she cried after reading the texts she and Charlotte had exchanged two weeks ago, her dress got crumpled from sleeping on the couch and a dollop of spicy mayo fell on it, and her blow out was a after the couch and spending two hours on public transportation until finally getting home, exhausted.

Salem waited for her on Charlotte’s favorite comfy chair. He meowed when she took off the heels Eleanor made her wear, stretched a bit, and went back to sleep.

“Gato preguiçoso,” [1] Mia chuckled to the otherwise empty house.

She still had a couple hours before they arrived, so she could clean herself, wash her face, brush her hair, reapply the deodorant and the perfume Charlie had given to her for her 28th birthday that year, and find some appropriate clothes without stains and tears to meet them. She chose a comfortable pair of slacks and a simple black button-up shirt she used to teach classes and a pair of cute black loafers, also gifted by Charlotte. Most of the charming and expensive stuff Mia owned came from Charlotte. She took another Xanax. It was a good idea to be slightly buzzed upon encountering Laura and Richard.

She had met them for the first time at their annual Thanksgiving dinner gala, back in Boston, in 2011. Back then, Charlotte was just this extremely friendly girl in the “Decolonial Thinking” postgrad class Mia’s supervisor was teaching that semester. They had gone out to drinks a few times with big groups of people, because Charlotte insisted on taking Mia with them. Then they started grabbing coffee together before walking to class and eating lunch when their break hours coincided. Charlotte took pity on Mia not having enough money to travel to Brazil for the holidays and spend them alone, without her parents and her extended family.

It had been the first time Mia ever saw a private jet and travelled in one. That was also when she realized that she would never fit in Charlotte’s world.

That had been evident from the first moment Laura met her and looked at her from head to toe with a polite icy smile and asked her if she planned to also wear denims to her party. When Charlotte acted offended for Mia’s feelings, Laura pretended it had been a joke and laughed it off. “Ah, Lottie, you take everything so seriously!” She teased her daughter.

To Mia, their house looked like a palace. It had wings, ballrooms, two winter gardens, an indoor pool bigger than Mia’s place, tennis courts, and everything a person could want in a small town. The crystal chandelier hanging in the foyeur had the size of a car. They put her in a guest room that had the size of the apartment where she had grown up in San Francisco. Like some sort of fairy godmother, Charlotte whisked her off and took her to a shopping spree, under the excuse that she needed new clothes for herself. In the process, she forced Mia to accept a peach colored gown and new shoes.

“It’s my fault for putting you in this position,” she said, back then. “And not realizing that of course my mom would make something like that, so, please, let me fix things for you.”

Over the years, Charlotte would occasionally appear with impromptu gifts for Mia that could vary from a small poetry book to a designer handbag, just because. Charlotte was like that with all of her close friends.

This would all be a part of Mia’s anecdotes of her youth now.

Laura and Richard arrived punctually at 6 p.m. Laura had more and more botox on her face with each passing year and Richard didn’t bother to fight his hair loss anymore. They were dressed soberly and greeted Mia with no smiles. Laura drew a huge sigh when she looked around the living room. A mixture of being tired and disappointed.

They still had a son, Charlotte’s older brother, Matthew, who was a Congressman and lived in DC as well with his wife and young son. Not that his life and Charlie’s crossed paths often. Charlotte had always been their prodigal little princess.

“Do you want to sit on the couch… Or maybe you would like to go to Charlotte’s room?”

Richard, who had been standing near the living room’s fireplace for a few moments, lost in thought, appeared to have awakened from his daydream.

“I think it’s best if we talk first, Amelia.”

Laura sat on the edge of the couch, as if the fabric could be contaminated with something.

“Can I offer you some tea? Some cookies I baked yesterday?” Mia was still standing in the middle of the living room, as if she was a waitress or one of their maids.

“Is that my great-aunt’s china?” Was what Laura asked instead, her voice sounding offended.

Mia looked at the porcelain cups and saucers she had procured from the box in the pantry where she knew Charlotte kept it to be used every time her parents’ were in town.

“I… I believe it is.” Mia stuttered.

Laura sighed again and pursed her lips.

“I will accept a cup of tea. No sugar, but two drops of sweetener, and a splash of lemon.” Mia knew how Laura took her tea, she had seen Charlotte doing it for her mother a few hundred times, and Laura would always find it incredibly eccentrical that her daughter didn’t have at least one full-time maid at her disposal and had to perform mundane tasks such as serving tea to her guests. “Richard will take one cup with a teaspoon of honey and no lemon.”

Mia did as she was told, trying to not act up because Laura was being rude. Her daughter had been murdered and now she had to deal with her roommate and living arrangements. It probably wasn’t due to Mia’s color and nationality. Not all of it, at least.

“Thank you, Amélia,” said Richard when Mia took the cup and the saucer to him. He took a sip of it before speaking. “The FBI informed us that their medical examiner is going to be done with Charlotte’s body by Friday. We have scheduled a public ceremony to happen in the National Cathedral, this Sunday at 8 a.m., and afterwards there will be a private wake here, at her house. My assistant will call you tomorrow and ask for the list of people you think should be invited from Georgetown. Charlotte’s body will be transported Monday to be buried in our family Mausoleum in Boston, but the President asked us to have a Mass for her here. Many of my friends are in Washington and want to say their condolences to the family.”

Also, Washington was where Charlotte had lived for the past four years and made several friends and work acquaintances of her own, but Mia knew that Richard Bradford III’s world revolved around Richard Bradford III.

“I don’t want to meddle, but she wanted to be cremated.” Mia shouldn’t have said anything, but she couldn’t help it. It was true. She wanted to be cremated and that her ashes were buried in one of those garden cemeteries. She also wanted to donate every organ available, but this was impossible due to… Well, everything.

“What?” Laura asked, now positively offended.

“I know she wanted to be cremated because she told me so more than once. If you ask her other friends, they will…”

“Thank you for your input on our dead daughter, Amelia, but we will proceed as scheduled.” Richard interrupted her. “We are here as a courtesy, because we understand that you were Charlotte’s roommate and a friend, but don’t think for a second that you are part of this family.”

“We are going to bury our daughter. You have no idea of how unnatural and horrible this is for a parent.” Laura would never speak Amélia’s name or call her by anything. She knew she was being spoken to when Laura had her face turned to her and a specific intonation in her voice. Mia wondered how much she knew of the true nature of their relationship. “I’m tired. Richard, can we cut this short, please?”

“Still in consideration to the affection our daughter had for you, this is us letting you know, officially, that, starting today, you have thirty days to vacate this house with your possessions. On October 28th, a mover’s crew will come here and pack everything left behind.”

Her heart beated fast against her throat. She knew this was going to happen, but, still, it was hard to believe just how cold the Bradfords could be, even after all these years.

“And Salem?” Mia asked.

“What?” Once again, it was Laura who mostly acknowledged Mia’s presence in the room.

“Her cat. Our cat. Can I keep him?”

“Of course, girl. What would we want with a cat?” Laura scoffed and returned her half-drinked cup of tea to the tray Mia had put in the coffee table.

“May I ask what you intend to do with the other things in the house? Not Charlie’s personal things, but the furniture, the non-heirloom kitchenware, these things.”

This was when Richard turned up to look at Mia, frowning.

“Why do you think you’re entitled to this knowledge?” She managed to offend Richard too. Well, too bad.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that I was homeless when Charlotte invited me to live with her and I don’t have any furniture of my own so, if there would be anything you would give to charity or throw in a deposit unit and forget about it, I would want it.”

“Don’t you have a job at Georgetown?” Laura asked, genuinely confused.

Mia had to use all her willpower to not roll her eyes at her.

“Yes. And I send money to my parents to help them. And DC is really expensive. I don’t want to be an inconvenience in this difficult time…”

“Don’t you, now?”

“Laura…” It was Richard’s time to sigh. Laura stopped speaking. “We will discuss your request and my assistant will be in touch with you to give our answer in the next few days. Does it work for you, Amelia?”

“Yes, thank you very much.”

Richard checked his Rolex.

“Are you ready to leave, Laura?” Upon hearing her husband’s question, Laura sprung from the couch with all the grace of a panther.

“Thank you for being such a gracious hostess.” Laura shook Mia’s hand with the same enthusiasm she put in her words. “We would appreciate it immensely if you could find somewhere else to be between 9 a.m. and noon tomorrow. My husband and I want to come here and look at our daughters personal belongings with privacy.”

“I… Sure. I have a class to teach in the morning and a department meeting in the afternoon. I will actually stay most of the day out.”

“Excellent.” Laura let go of Mia’s hand and walked to the door. “We can see ourselves out. Richard, we are leaving.”

Richard strode in big steps to meet his wife by the threshold.

“We meet again on Sunday, Amelia.”

Before leaving, Laura turned back one last time to Mia, detaining her gaze on her clothes.

“This is acceptable, if it’s your best black outfit. Good night.”

Before Mia could say anything else, they closed the door and left.

***

When Amélia got home the next day, she realized that the Bradfords had taken the Persian rugs with them. She went to Charlotte’s room and they had also taken her jewelry and most expensive clothes. They hadn’t touched on a single book in the library Charlotte had been building for the past decade of her life and left most of her pictures behind. Ironically, the only pictures of Charlotte Laura was interested in were the most recent ones, in which Charlie was blonde, very thin, and extra femme.

Mia opened up one of the most expensive bottles of wine Charlotte kept in the cellar and drank it all on the bathtub while listening to Amy Winehouse and feeling anger bottling up inside herself. She knew it was a terrible idea to mix the meds she was on with alcohol, but she was way beyond caring.

Without thinking, she got her phone and opened the IM.

“ur patentents r unbleviblabe

unbelivlabe

whatesvs”

She realized she was texting a ghost.

“omg

ur ded

i frgot

yeah, i can be moar honset now

ur parents r horibl ppl

ur mom hate me, charls

ill be hooomeless again

and ur not hear to halp me anymora

halp

h e l p”

She put her phone to the side and got out of the bath, slowly. The idea that she could slip and die drunk in the bathroom two weeks after Charlotte was murdered made her start laughing maniacally. She wrapped herself in the fluffy bathrobe she had splurged on a while ago and went to Charlotte’s bed. Her own room was smaller than Charlotte’s ― still the biggest room Mia lived in, but Charlotte had the main room and the main bathroom in the house ― and her bed was a regular double. That night, Mia just wanted to spread herself as big as she could on the bed and pretend that she was still able to smell Charlotte on the sheets.

***

When Sunday came, Amélia decided she had no interest in going to the church and listening to how Charlotte would be in Heaven now. But Eleanor and Ewa had both made her promise she would be there and Eleanor made a closing argument about the importance of the ritual to the realization of the grief.

Mia didn’t want to argue with them, so she put on a simple black cocktail dress and flats, made a ballerina bun with her hair, and grabbed a black shawl for the Autumn breeze that got stronger each day. In her family, people usually didn’t have a dress code to funerals, but the Bradfords already thought of her as an uncultured savage because she owned no pearls and had been born South the Equator line. She just wanted to be left alone that day.

There were huge posters with Charlotte’s picture hanging on easels and surrounded by flowers right at the entrance of the National Cathedral. Unsurprisingly, Laura ― or, more likely, Laura’s assistant ― chose one professionally taken that past June when Charlie had gone to Boston for her mother’s 52nd birthday party. She had so much makeup on her face and the photographer even retouched the picture so much that it didn’t even look like Charlotte. Mia wanted to rip it all from the walls with her bare hands. Instead, she took a deep breath and walked in.

A young woman with an earpiece and a clipboard approached Mia when she was walking down the aisle, looking for a place to sit. Alongside with white roses, lilies, and white orchids decorated each bench and each nook in the walls. At least Amélia would be able to distract herself from the religious platitudes the Archbishop would say for hours with the smell and the beauty of the flowers.

“Excuse me, can I get your name, please?” The girl with the clipboard asked. She was taller than Mia, but her face was very young.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, but there are a few people with designated places and I didn’t memorize all their faces, so I’m asking the names to direct them to their seats.” Mia empathized with her anxiety. She was probably just an intern.

“I’m Doctor Amélia Ferreira.”

The girl ran her pen on her list for a few instants and then looked back up at Mia again, with a trained smile.

“Your name is not on the list. Please, you can choose to sit whatever you want to, from the ropes to the back.”

Of fucking course.

“Thank you, I’ll be seated in just a minute.”

She went back to look for Ellie and Ewa again, and managed to see a few familiar faces. There were several FBI agents standing by the Cathedral’s walls, all dressed in black outfits and discreetly muttering things to their earpieces. Amélia saw Doctor Lewis, who smiled politely and waved back at Mia when she, not knowing what to do, tried to say some form of hello. Doctor Reid was standing in front of Doctor Lewis, by the opposite wall. Before Mia could think of how to acknowledge him, he started walking, talking to his earpiece, and left her vision field.

Almost all people from Georgetown who were present offered their heartfelt sentiments to Amélia ― even the ones who had already done this before in the occasions they had met at the university during the past week ― as if she was special there, and politely asked if there was anything they could do to help her. Mia thanked them all, not knowing if she preferred to be treated as Charlie’s widow by her colleagues or a nobody by Charlie’s family.

At the first row seats, Mia recognized important politicians from both parties ― there was even a funeral wreath signed by the President and the First Lady down by the altar ― Charlotte’s parents, her brother and his wife and son, some women Mia recognized from the pictures Charlotte had showed her of her Daughters of the American Revolution chapter, some girls from Charlotte’s old sorority, and Professor Browne and his wife. There was literally not a single person in that group who was one of Charlotte’s real and closest friends.

Mia found them agglomerated in the back of the church, Eleanor and Ewa were sitting with that group even though they were mostly Mia’s friends. Kate and Toshiro were the ones crying the hardest. They had been from the same Master’s class and Kate went to Yale too. Kate wasn’t broke like most of them in the group, but she wasn’t sufficiently _elite_ to be considered worthy of being remembered as one of Charlotte’s friends. Toshiro, being transmasc, wasn’t even acknowledged when Laura asked Charlie about her friends, even though he was present in every big and small moment of Charlie’s life in the past five years. Their close-knit group also counted with Rachel, who was Toshiro’s girlfriend. When Rachel hugged Mia, she made the sarcastic remark that only Charlie could make her sit through mass.

Mia sat with Ellie and Ewa, thinking how much she wished she could be with her own mom, but her grandmother’s health issues ate away all of her family’s savings and consumed her mother’s time. They had been skyping almost daily since the news of Charlotte’s death came up. Margarida refused to let her daughter suffer in silence.

Mia was also thinking of writing a will. Nothing complicated because she was penniless, but stating what she wanted to happen to her body when she died. Amélia wanted to be cremated and she wanted to have her ashes scattered on the Atlantic Ocean, preferably on a beach in Rio. Mia told her mother about this on their last phone call and Margarida swore to her if, by some tragic twist of fate, she were to outlive her daughter, she would be sure that her wishes were honored.

“Você sabia o que era melhor para você com oito anos, Mima, como eu posso ser arrogante de pensar que você não saberia tomar as suas próprias decisões aos vinte e oito?”

“O que mais tem é pai e mãe arrogante por aí, mãezinha.”

“Eu te amo, viu, minha chiquita? Toma os remédios que o teu médico mandou e força na peruca. Mas sabe que, se quiser voltar para a casa, tem colo de mãe esperando por ti.” [2]

Amélia almost didn’t cry at mass. She kept herself lost in her thoughts, occasionally thinking about Salem, who she had locked up in her room before leaving so he wouldn’t be tempted to run with the doors constantly being opened and the huge influx of people coming in and out of the house that day. The event planners had arrived when Mia was still eating breakfast, with Laura’s assistant serving as a hostess and coordinating the army of people storming Mia’s house with flowers, cutlery, decorations, and food and beverage. They were really busy assembling tables and chairs in Mia's small backyard. When Mia was leaving for church, a real string quartet arrived and passed right by her, like she was just a ghost haunting the place.

The Bradfords intended to leave Mia’s life with pizzazz.

The advantage of seating on the final rows of church was that Eleanor, Ewaoshun, and Mia were able to leave the place very quickly and walk to Ewa’s car. Ewa was shorter than Eleanor and her skin was darker than her Lawyer wife’s. She used her hair in a big fluffy afro, carefully cared for with the regular application of natural oils and always sleeping in silk sheets. Ewa’s face was round and so was her curvaceous body. She had lived in Nigeria until the early 2000s, when she immigrated to the U.S. to consolidate herself as an internationally renowned neonatal cardiac surgeon. The precise movements of her hands were as sharp as her tongue.

She met Eleanor in 2007, when the mother of one of her patients got in trouble with Immigration, and they liked to tell the story of their love at first sight to anyone who cared to listen. In every aspect that mattered, they had been married for six years. In June that year, they had run to the courthouse and made it official. Now, due to the insistence of Ewa’s parents, they were planning a huge wedding, with a not so traditional Yoruba ceremony. There was the problem of Eleanor’s family being more conservative and having had issues with accepting the fact that their daughter was a lesbian, but Eleanor’s mother declared that they would never miss her wedding and the reservations they had about her “life choices” were being put to the side in the name of the belief that family always shows up. The party would happen in the Spring of 2016, in Miami, which was midway between Lagos and DC.

Ewa would jokingly call Ellie was “husband”, on occasion, even though their relationship couldn’t be captured by the butch/femme dyadism. Eleanor was less interested in traditionally feminine chores, such as cooking and cleaning, but it was Ewaoshun who made more money on her work and was less interested in keeping up with the fashion trends than Eleanor. Since June and until a week ago, they couldn’t stop discussing wedding plans even when they were meeting with Mia. Now, there was a weird silence in the car as Ewa drove them to Mia’s house.

When they parked, the street was already being filled with Porches, Mercedes, and Ferraris. Like it had happened in the Cathedral, there were paparazzi on the sidewalk, taking pictures of the people coming in. After all, an heiress with an Ivy League diploma in the middle of her PhD who had been working as an escort and got herself murdered in a horrible manner was, by every aspect possible, _juicy news._

Behind the house’s iron gates, on Mia’s small front garden, there was a man dressed like a bouncer with another clipboard in hand getting people’s names before letting them in. Beside him was the FBI agent that helped her when she fainted and a blonde woman agent with a long ponytail.

“Dear God, they transformed your house in a circus,” Ewa said, frowning in shock, as they were getting closer.

“Legally, you’re still a resident here, they gave you a verbal notice of eviction and a promise that it wouldn’t be enforced until the end of October, Ames.” Eleanor held Mia’s shoulder when they were crossing the gates.

“Do you think they would try to stop her from entering her own house?! Today?!” Ewa’s voice was a conspiratorial shocked whisper. “I mean, they are the biggest example of crazy rich whites I’ve ever met, but this would be a little too far, my love.”

“After what Ames told us about their last visit and how Mommy Dearest made a point in taking the china and the jewelry with her, I don’t think anything is beyond the scope for these people, sweetheart.”

“They won’t stop any of us from coming in because there’s nothing Laura Bradford fears more than a scandal,” Mia stated, walking with decisiveness towards the guy with the clipboard. “Good morning. Our names are Doctor Amélia Ferreira, Doctor Ewaoshun Adeoye, and Ms. Eleanor Adeoye.”

“Good morning, ma’am. Just a moment. Ade… Adeoye, yes, you may come in. How was it you said your name was again, miss?”

“Ferreira. The first letter is an F, as in…” Her mind went blank for a moment. “As in ‘first’.”

Eleanor snickered beside her. She knew what her friend had thought and that random moment of silliness made Mia feel like herself for the first time that day.

“Ah, Amelia Fe… Fer… You may go in.” 

They had to stay for a moment more in the garden, because Eleanor couldn’t stop laughing at the whole scene.

“Eleanor?!” Someone called from behind them.

When they turned, a tall brown man with a luscious mustache and a head full of thick black hair was walking towards them. He had dark circles under his beautiful black eyes. Still, his face was as handsome as a Disney prince.

“Ishaan!” Eleanor greeted him, offering her hand for him to shake. “You remember my wife, Ewaoshun.”

“I am under the impression that you like to introduce us every time we meet just so you can say she is your wife, Eleanor.” He laughed, shaking Ewa’s hand. His voice had a sonorous British accent. “How are you, Ewa, saving babies, bringing joy to families?”

“That’s the deal, you know me, Ishaan, I’m a superstar.” Ewa charmingly joked back.

“And this is our friend, Amélia. I don’t think that you both have been introduced. Ames, this is Ishaan Acharya. He’s a friend from my days in Law School, back in Oxford,” Eleanor introduced them. “Ishaan, this is Doctor Amélia Ferreira, my friend from the No Borders movement.”

“Nice to meet you.” His hand was cool and soft when Mia took it in hers. “What brought you to America from the Old Continent? Do you also hate the rain, like Ellie?”

He chuckled again.

“No, no. It was the big fat paycheck my current office offered me.”

“They poached you from across the pond? You must be good, then.”

“Word has it that I’m the best.”

Mia felt her heartbeat speed up with his words. He was confident, to say the least. He let go of her hand and she took a small step back, getting closer to Eleanor and Ewa.

“What brings you here, Ishaan? Are you a guest of the Bradfords?” Eleanor asked him. She had decided to hold Ewa while they were standing and rest her head on her wife’s shoulder. Mia felt affection and jealousy in the same flow of emotions by watching them.

“Actually, you could say I’m a guest of Ms. Charlotte Bradford. I have been trying to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Bradford with no success for a week. Their barristers have also not responded to my attempts of contacting them. I was hoping to catch the Bradfords here before having to resort to a judge.”

Mia frowned her brow for a minute, confused.

“A guest of… What did you say was your specialty again?” She asked him.

“I didn’t. I’m an estate planner.”

The words took a moment to make sense in Amélia’s head. People were passing by them, entering the house by the dozens in a weird state of mind, chatting as if they were just out for Sunday brunch. And Charlotte had hired someone to plan her estate.

“Actually, I was hoping to talk to you too, Doctor Ferreira, but I had a feeling that you would be easier to contact once I had the Bradfords dealt with…”

“Did Charlotte make a will?” Doctor Reid’s voice came from behind Mia. How long was he listening to their conversation? She turned her head back and realized that he was just a couple of steps behind her.

“I’m sorry, but who are you?” Ishaan asked him.

“I’m Doctor Spencer Reid, I’m one of the agents working on Ms. Bradford’s murder.”

Ishaan’s eyebrows raised just a millimeter and he kept looking at Reid during a moment, as if calculating his next steps.

“Hm… Yes, Doctor Reid. I’m Ishaan Acharya, Ms. Bradford hired me to represent her estate. I am trying to schedule a will reading for as soon as possible and do things cordially, but I haven’t been successful in my attempts.”

Mia was still processing Ishaan’s presence there.

“Charlotte had a will?” Mia asked.

When Ishaan’s dark eyes focused again on Mia, the feeling of being trapped in a nightmare returned. She could feel her throat clamping shut and the nausea hitting her in waves.

“Yes. I can explain everything better in another…” 

“How long?” She interrupted Ishaan. “How long ago did she make it?”

_How long ago was she aware she was going to die?_

“Two months.” There was sympathy and pain in Ishaan’s handsome face and Mia could just feel anger.

Two months. She took a step back. And then she took another and her body collided with a strong chest and hands catched her. When she looked up, surprisingly, it was Doctor Reid who had been there. Flustered and even more irritated, Mia got away from him and bolted towards the house.

The living room was filled with strangers chatting in morbid whispers. No one acknowledged her when she stepped in. She was just a ghost.

Two months. Charlotte had a will for two months. She walked among the crowd as if she was drunk. A drunk ghost, invisible to all of the fancy guests. Someone’s muffled laugh cut through Mia like glass. Just a few minutes ago, this was her. Flirting and laughing in the garden with the stranger who knew Charlotte was thinking about dying for two months.

She bumped with someone.

“I’m so sorry,” Mia muttered before even seeing who it was.

Laura let an exasperated sound escape her thin lips.

“What are you doing? Why are you so pale, girl?” She snarled, quickly cleaning herself with the pocket square someone had given her.

No sound left her when Mia opened her mouth to explain.

“I… I’m sorry.” She gave up on telling her and tried to find the stairs. She just needed to be in her room.

Did Charlotte know she was in danger? Was she thinking about hurting herself? Why did a 26 year-old in perfect health hire an estate planner? She could see the stairs now, she would only have to cross the ocean of people separating her from her room. What did Charlotte do with her estate? Knowing her, she probably left everything to charity. Laura would combust if that was the case. She would be furious.

Mia kept walking and focusing on just laying on her bed and trying to forget that this day existed and it wasn’t even noon. Another white guy who looked like a bouncer was standing by the end of the stairs, with a literal rope closing it.

“The second floor is not open for visitation.” He held up a hand in front of her face, stopping her from walking further.

“I’m not a guest, I live here.”

He looked at her like she was a thief or crazy and didn’t budge.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m under strict orders to not let anyone go upstairs.”

“I live here!” Mia’s voice wasn’t restrained anymore and a few heads turned to look at her. “This is still my house, let me pass!”

“Ma’am, please control yourself or I will have to ask one of my colleagues to escort you from the premises.”

Mia was furious now.

“What do you need to believe that I live here? Do you want me to describe my room? Or get a letter with my name?”

He pushed her. Very softly, but pushed her.

“Ma’am, step away. I won’t ask you again.”

If this was any other day, Mia would have retreated and rethinked strategy. But she was beyond everything at that point.

“What the hell, dude? Why did you push me for?”

She was angry. Her ears buzzed, her hands were tingling. Angry at this guy. Angry at the party planners who turned her house into a circus. Very angry at the Bradfords for treating her like crap. Even more angry at the FBI and its pretty agents for… Existing. And, most of all, she was really, really angry at Charlotte for being dead.

“Does it make you feel like a big man, pushing a girl around like that? Does it make you feel powerful?” Mia goated him. She didn’t even know what she was trying to accomplish besides just letting _someone_ listen to how bad they made her feel. “Seu brocha. Seu lambe-botas de merda. Você não é melhor do que eu não. Nós dois somos fodidos, parceiro. Dois fodidos.” [2]

He seemed like he was going to take a step towards her and then he stopped on his tracks. Before Mia could ask herself what was going on, she felt herself being grabbed by her arm and spun on her heels. Laura was in front of her and she seemed furious.

“How dare you?!” Laura screamed at her face. 

“Wh… What?”

“You murdered my daughter, whore!”

“Laura, you’re hurting me.” Mia tried to make Laura let go of her, without any success.

“Shut the fuck up or I will kill you with my bare hands!”

“Laura, Laura, our guests.” Richard appeared in Mia’s vision, delicately holding his wife by her shoulders and whispering in her ear. “We will deal with this later, compose yourself now.”

Laura let go of her and, when Mia looked around, a lot of people were staring at her and whispering. Laura took a deep breath and adjusted her clothes before speaking again. Mia’s arm was hurting.

“You won’t get a single cent from us. Mark my words, _thief_.”

“Mrs. Bradford, like I’ve said before, this is not up to you to decide. I was trying to keep things civil and…” Ishaan was there too. He was trying to make Laura understand something.

“You can take your civility and shove it up your…” Richard squeezed Laura’s shoulders again and she took another deep breath. “If you think we won’t fight this absurdity in court, you’re delusional, Mr. Acharya.”

“Mrs. Bradford, be reasonable. You’re a very intelligent woman, after you see the documentation, you will realize that no judge will abide by your request to nullify your daughter’s will. If your barristers bother to talk with me, they will tell you the same thing.”

While they argued, Mia slowly walked back into the crowd. She needed to get out of there.

Through her path to the door, people were just letting her pass and moving out of her way like she was contagious. It was only after closing the iron gates behind herself that Mia realized she had left her shawl on Ewa’s car.

What had Charlotte done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors Notes:
> 
> [1] Lazy cat
> 
> [2] "You knew what was best for you at eight, Mima, how can I be arrogant enought to think you wouldn't know how to make your own decisions at twenty-eight?"  
> "The world is crowded with arrogant parents, mommy"  
> "I love you, ok, my little girl? Take the pills your doctor told you to and hold on. But know that, if you want to come home, there's a place for you between my arms"
> 
> [3] "Limp dick. Boot-licker piece of shit. You aren't better than me. We are both broke-ass bitches, dude. Two broke bitches"


	5. A key stained with blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Doctor would protect you.” Spencer argued. They stopped at another light and he turned to look at her again. There was something defiant there now, almost cocky.
> 
> “Would he, now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Having observed that the key to the closet was stained with blood, she tried two or three times to wipe it off; but the blood would not come out; in vain did she wash it, and even rub it with soap and sand. The blood still remained, for the key was magical and she could never make it quite clean; when the blood was gone off from one side, it came again on the other."

She was a few steps ahead of him, trying to cross the reporters who were still camped in the middle of the street. They were paying no attention to her, but their cameras and microphones seemed to be a lot for her and she was walking in circles, trying to open just a small space to crawl through.

Mr. Acharya had entered the house by Emily’s request, since Charlotte’s sealed will hadn’t appeared in Garcia’s online searches and it was vital for their investigation that the FBI had access to it as soon as possible. Emily asked Tara and Spencer to locate dr. Ferreira, since she had vanished among the guests after knowing Charlotte had planned for her death. Spencer had to remind himself that she could be pretending. She could be just acting innocent. He had seen it before and she was brilliant enough to do it.

Through the open channel, Spencer heard when Emily introduced Mr. Acharya to Mr. and Mrs. Bradford. The lawyer had shown paper receipts with Charlotte’s signature to Emily and explained that, in all official communication and paperwork from his office, she would appear as Norma Jean Mortenson, a fact that Garcia was able to verify quickly. With that information, she was also able to have an idea of what was written on that will.

The Bradfords found the concept of Charlotte having a will was ridiculous.

“But why would she hire _you_ and not use our family attorney?” Spencer heard Laura ask, slightly slurring her words.

“I suppose that Ms. Bradford was looking for discretion, Mrs. Bradford.” He was cordial towards her in a very professional manner. “I just need you to ask your barristers to speak to my office and we will schedule the will reading as soon as it is possible for you and dr. Ferreira.”

“ _Her_?” And then she laughed. “Goodness, how is she in any way a part of…” She trailed off for a moment. “Is she in the will?”

Spencer found Amélia, she was arguing with a member of the Bradfords’ security staff by the house’s stairs.

“I’m not a guest, I live here,” she said. She was trying to sound dignified, but her voice was trembling.

“Let go of me, Trip!” Spencer heard Laura Bradford on the open channel.

“Mrs. Bradford is heading towards you, Spence,” Emily had told him.

“On it,” he answered.

And then the situation with Amélia escalated. She was clearly cursing him in Portuguese. Although Spencer couldn’t make sense of the words, her tone was beyond doubt of anger and contempt. And that was when hell broke loose.

As soon as Laura Bradford let go of her, Amélia disappeared into the crowd again. She could be having a difficult time processing everything. Or she needed to be alone to gather her thoughts and train her lost puppy look. Either way, she shouldn’t be unaccounted for.

“Spence, go after the doc. Stay with her. See if she trusts you enough to give you something.” Emily instructed him again.

“Without her lawyer?”

“It’s not an official questioning. She’s not officially a suspect. She hasn’t been accused of anything yet. You’re not doing anything illegal, Spencer.”

_Yet._ After all, $130 million was an excellent motive for murder.

He ran after her, seeing her stumble through the backyard. She was wearing just that cotton black dress and the weather had turned windy.

He crossed the steps that separated them and put one arm around her while he flashed his badge at an annoying photographer.

“FBI, make way.”

She went stiff under his arm. With the corner of his eye, he could see she was looking at him with eyes wide as saucers. They walked in silence to his parked car. He let go of her and took his keys to open it.

“Where are you taking me?” She asked, and Spencer realized that she was shaking like a leaf. “People saw us leaving together, I bet some reporter even took a picture of your badge.”

“You’re scared of me.” He said, utterly surprised. It was such an alien experience for him to have random witnesses being so scared of him.

“Should I not? You’re taking me to an unmarked car in an empty street. What do you want with me?”

“Listen, I’m… I’m not a bad guy, you don’t need to…” He made a movement to touch her arm and she recoiled.

“If you touch me, I’ll scream.”

He sighed, tired. Why did everyone insist that he was the best person to approach her was beyond his comprehension. They seemed to have had a moment when she was feeling sick and he took her food, but maybe she actually felt harassed.

“I’m sorry. If you want to get a cab or go back there, you can. I’m not trying to harm you.” He kept his hands up, palms turned to her, just holding his car keys, and spoke slowly and softly to her, like she was a scared and trapped animal. “If you want to come with me, I can take you to lunch and try to pass the time until the house is empty and it’s safe for you to go in there again.”

When she heard the word “safe”, her hand instinctively went to the place where Laura Bradford had grabbed her earlier. There was probably going to be a bruise in the shape of her fingers. A token for her to remind of this nightmarish day.

She seemed to consider her options, looking back to her street just across the corner, and then to Spencer again.

“Won’t your boss mind if you ditch work to grab lunch with me?” She asked, cautiously. He knew his next words would be crucial.

“I will let them know that I’m keeping you safe. I can talk with them now, if you want.”

“You’re not… You’re not arresting me, then?” She was still skittish.

“No.” He said, with emphasis. “What would you be arrested for?”

Amélia just shrugged.

“And you’re not taking me into questioning?”

“No, this is not an official questioning in any way. You’re a witness in a federal investigation, you have just been attacked and threatened. You need protection right now.” This made her shoulders finally relax and her face changed completely in front of him.

For the first time, she looked openly at Spencer. Splayed on her face, he could see pain, anger, indignation, and exhaustion all mixed in together.

“Fuck. That actually happened, huh?” She said, letting out a shaky laugh.

“Yeah, it did.” There was a moment where they stood there in silence while Spencer fidgeted with his keys. “So… How are you feeling?”

“Hungry. Are you taking me to lunch or what?”

He chuckled and clicked his car keys, opening it. “His” car was actually a FBI-issued black SUV. It was way too big, in his opinion, but he just never managed to say to the department that he wanted a different car.

“What are you feeling like eating?” He asked her, turning the key in the ignition after she had fastened her seatbelt.

She had a sly smile on her lips when she turned at him.

“Don’t you have an eidetic memory? What am I feeling like eating, doctor?”

Spencer could barely restrain his smile. She was teasing him. She didn’t hate him.

“Fine. We can play this game.” He left the parking spot, going into traffic and not looking at her anymore. “Just so I know: who is paying?”

“You asked me, it’s your treat.” He could hear the smile on her voice.

There were three possible comfort food choices. One was usually Charlotte’s treat. Although it could make her more prone to talking about their relationship and easy to suss out if she really didn’t know about the will, it was way beyond the means of his paycheck. The other was a food cart downtown that sold a Brazilian snack called _coxinhas_ , but it was too windy for them to eat in the middle of the street. The third one it was, then.

“Where would you go?” She asked him, after a few minutes of silence. They had stopped at a red light.

“Huh?”

“With the TARDIS. Your keychain.”

“I guess meeting Leonardo DaVinci would be fun.”

“Yeah, probably it would.”

More silence.

“And you? If you could go anywhere through space and time, where would you go?”

She seemed to consider his question for a while.

“Do you know why I like Star Trek so much?” So a question to answer another question. Spencer knew the answer to this, but he wanted her to say it nonetheless.

“Why?”

“I thought you could remember everything you read and I’m pretty certain that I have annoyed Charlie with my obsession more than once.”

It was his turn to shrug, not taking his eyes off the road.

“Maybe I just like to hear you speak.”

She went silent. Spencer got anxious and looked quickly at her. Amélia was staring at him with a puzzled look on her face. She was studying him.

“Fine.” She finally said. “I feel safer in the future than in the past. I don’t think that I could go nowhere in the past and be completely secure.”

“The Doctor would protect you.” Spencer argued. They stopped at another light and he turned to look at her again. There was something defiant there now, almost cocky.

“Would he, now?”

Spencer said nothing to that. He was talking about the character, but he had the distinct feeling that this wasn’t Amélia’s challenge. An IQ of 187 and double entendres were still hard for him to catch or, at least, be sure of. So he just kept looking at Amélia’s face. Her delicate bone structure, the freckles scattered on her high cheekbones and small nose, her raised eyebrow.

A car honked behind them.

“The light is green now, _doctor._ ”

So subtlety wasn’t her deal. Feeling heat spread through his neck and ears, Spencer looked back at the street and drove again. They got into the street the restaurant was at and Amélia let out a small chuckle, but said nothing.

It was half past noon, but he had no trouble in finding a parking spot. She quickly got out of the car and walked to the restaurant.

The header outside was painted in kanji and, underneath it, in the roman alphabet, it read “Mitsuba”. There was also a small sign by the door, with “ramen house” written in katakana. The place was small and decorated like a traditional Japanese ramen house. Most of the staff were from the same family, who had immigrated from Japan to America. A few patrons were there, mostly people from the Japanese community and eating silently or speaking in low voices.

“Irasshaimase!” The hostess greeted them, polite and cheerful when they entered the place.

“Konnichiwa,” Amélia greeted the hostess in the same tone. “How is the movement today, Mahina?”

“Konnichiwa, doc. Things are good here. Do you want a table or are you sitting by the counter?”

Amélia looked at Spencer with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.

“I think it’s best if we sit at a table, no? Since I have company today. We would like a table by the window, if it’s possible.”

Mahina gave a small polite smile at Amélia and Spencer.

“Very well, then. Please, follow me.”

And then she turned to the restaurant and guided them to a small booth close to a big window. Outside, an old oak with red leaves danced with the strong wind. A young girl was already waiting by the table, standing very straight with the same polite smile as Mahina on her lips. 

“Yuriko will take care of you today. I hope you enjoy your meal." And then she walked back to the restaurant’s door.

“Konnichiwa. Welcome to Mitsuba, how may I help you today?”

There were laminated menus on the table already. Everything was written in Japanese with the translation of each dish in small letters in English underneath it. They only served ramen, with a few options of the dish available. When Spencer raised his eyes again, a minute after, he saw that Amélia rested her chin in one of her hands and that sly smile was plastered on her lips.

“Konnichiwa, Yuriko,” Amélia greeted her briefly, and then she turned at Spencer again. “What are we ordering today, doctor?”

So she still wanted to play this game.

“Good morning. I will want the chef’s special and she will want the miso ramen with pork. We will both drink the matcha with lemon, please.”

“These are excellent choices, sir. I’ll be back with your order in a moment.”

When she was out of reach, Spencer turned to Amélia again. She was pretending to study the menu.

“So, have I passed the test?” He asked, smiling in a way that he hoped was charming.

Amélia looked at him through her eyelashes and smiled back.

“You aced it, Doctor Reid. If you were one of my students, I would have written a nice compliment underneath your grade.”

His mouth suddenly seemed dry and he swallowed even so. His head was lighter and his heartbeat was faster.

“And… And what would you have written?”

He _definitely_ shouldn’t have asked that. He was glad that he had turned off his microphone when Amélia got into his car earlier because this was the type of interaction that he would rather not have to explain to his team later.

“Excellent work, Spencer! I’m looking forward to seeing what you will come up with next. Color me intrigued.” And then she broke eye contact and chuckled. It had been the first time she said his name out loud. “I mean, of course you wouldn’t be my student. How many diplomas do you have, doctor?”

“I have three PhDs, one in Mathematics, one in Chemistry, and one in Engineering. And a BA in Psychology and another in Sociology. If I’m ever in the mood to get a PhD in Sociology, you could be one of my teachers.”

“Well, let’s see if I’ll still have a job by the end of the semester, and then we will see if you will be interested in reading Pierre Clastres and Angela Davis for my classes, g-man.”

“Would you radicalize me all the way out of the FBI?” He asked, gesturing with his thumb to the door and clicking his tongue at the end of his sentence.

She laughed softly again.

“I mean, I would be a very remiss teacher if I didn’t at least try to tell you that you’re not, in fact, with The Good Guys.”

Spencer furrowed his brow, annoyed. He had forgotten about just how radical and combative Amélia could be.

“What you’re saying to me is that you think that the group of people who study behavior and stop the most dangerous and violent criminals in America are not the good guys?”

“For starters, I don’t think that you stop the most dangerous and violent criminals in America.”

“What?”

“Even if 100% of your cases were only with the most grizzly and horrible serial killers. Like, I don’t know, baby eating torturers who also like to punch old people as a hobby.”

“Actually…” He tried to give her the actual numbers of serial killer cases and mention that they had never encountered a cannibal who only ate babies and also abused elders, but Amélia held one finger in front of him and shushed him.

“If you want to be my student, you must know that, in my classes, we wait for the person giving the seminar to finish their exposition before doing commentary.” Amélia lectured him. Spencer leaned back on the booth and crossed his arms over his chest, listening to her. “This, my dear Doctor Reid, was what we call a hypothetical scenario. I don’t care even one bit for the actual percentile of cannibal serial killers you go after. I wouldn’t care if you arrested Hannibal Lecter himself. Because, and here it comes the core of my argument, even if all of those people you labeled as your unsub and sent their names and evidence to the prosecution, then they got a fair trial, and then they were found guilty by an unbiased jury ― and then got a fair sentence, whatever that is supposed to be ― all of those people were in fact guilty of the crimes you say they are… They wouldn’t be the most dangerous and violent criminals in America. And arresting them solves little to nothing.”

“How can you say that?!” He asked, shocked.

“How can _you_ say that when the Guantanamo base is still open and operative, with god knows how many people unlawfully detained being endlessly tortured, many times without even knowing what crimes they are being accused of?” There was anger in her voice.

“So your point is that we should let serial killers and terrorists go free because a few agents cross the line?” Spencer knew this wasn't what she was saying. He had read her work. He had read her source materials. But he also believed in what he did.

“You’re kidding, right? You have three PhDs and two BAs, but have you _ever_ opened a History book that wasn’t written by some barely-disguised white supremacist who believes in the manifest destiny?”

He was angry at her stubbornness and radicalism. He wanted to grab her by her shoulders and…

“You’re making this into a political argument,” Spencer huffed.

“Newsflash: this _is_ a political argument and your job is deeply political, whether you like it or not.”

Yuriko was back with their steaming bowls of ramen and teapot. While she set their table, they stopped arguing.

“I just think…” Spencer took a deep breath while breaking his chopsticks open. “I just think that, if you took a step back and looked at this without being so trapped in your own personal bias, you would see that there’s a lot of good in what we do at the Bureau.”

She sighed too and ate a little before saying anything.

“Reid, the man who tortured, murdered, and vanished with the body of my grandfather was trained by CIA operatives ensuring that my home country would be trapped in a military dictatorship for 21 years. The man who tortured, murdered, and vanished with the body of my grandfather did the same thing with dozens of other people because they were trying to have free elections in our country again. Do you know when my family found out his name?”

“When?”

“Less than eighteen months ago. Because Brazil was convicted by the OAS’ international court for Crimes Against Humanity and the current Brazilian president was also a freedom fighter during the military regime and she gave the ok to have a Truth Commission to investigate those crimes. Do you know what happened to this man, the 9 to 5 mass murderer and torturer?”

His stomach felt like he was eating concrete instead of amazing broth.

“What happened to him?” Spencer asked, fearing her answer.

“He is a reformed colonel now, with more medals than he has places in his lapels to show them off. After his crimes were discovered, his name was around for a short news cycle and then he was elected pet hero by a bunch of neofascist congressmen. That’s what happens to the more dangerous and violent criminals in the world: they keep ruling our lives.” There was a beat of silence where they ate before she spoke again. “You may say that this happened in my country, which is just a Banana Republic, right? And we are all violent savages, so we live in a hobbesian state, while here you are the Center of the Free World.”

“I would never say that.” He couldn’t look at her, so he focused on his ramen instead. He knew his job was barely able to scratch the surface of all the problems the world had. But he usually focused on the problems that he could solve. Like stopping a compulsive violent murderer from killing again.

“I’m glad you wouldn’t, because it’s not true. Because I was tortured too, when I was eighteen. In New York, by an FBI agent.”

“What?!” He asked, almost dropping his chopsticks and looking at her, shocked.

“I was very lucky that I wasn’t hit or framed or illegally sent to some prison with no paper trail under the guise of the War on Terror. But I was in a pacific protest against the War in Iraq in front of the UN when we were all arrested by the FBI. I hadn’t my rights said to me, I was denied the right to see my lawyer, and I was left in a very cold room with no windows for over twelve hours with just a small bottle of water and no food, no place to sleep or sit comfortably, and no bathroom breaks. This is colloquially called ‘the icebox’ by developers of torture. The light was always on and I had no idea how long it had been. During this time, the agent in charge of my arrest kept threatening and terrorizing me. Saying that they would deport my parents, that I would disappear in jail, that horrible things happened to pretty girls in the system, that my friends were all pinning everything on me. I had no idea even what ‘everything’ was, what I was supposed to confess to having done. He wanted the names of the organizers of the protest. He said I would be able to go home if I just snitched the others first...”

She stopped talking and went back on eating her ramen.

“And what happened?” Spencer asked. He needed to know.

“Nothing. The only thing he heard from me was that I wanted to see my lawyer and then, around 6 a.m., he came back to say that I was free to go. No further explanation was given. There’s not a single shred of physical evidence to prove that I was ever detained. I don’t even know this agent’s name. And this was just my first time, Reid. He was the worst, but he was also just the first.”

“Did you report this?” It was a silly question, but he had to make it.

Amélia let out a hollow laugh.

“To whom?”

Spencer chewed on a mushroom, thinking.

“You won’t like what I’m going to say, but, although not having your Miranda Rights said to you is very bad and you definitely had your rights violated, you didn’t live anything that out of the ordinary, specially back in ‘05. Unfortunately, this still is a standard interrogation technique. I don’t know if we even call it ‘torture’.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Have _you_ ever done this… ‘standard interrogation technique’ to anyone?”

“At the BAU, we usually prefer to focus on building rapport when conducting an interrogation or doing an interview. What I think is: everyone is a human being at some level. Now, some people are way more evil than others, but my goal is to get what I need from the individual in front of me. To get actionable intelligence and information that can help in the investigation. And, if I need to build rapport with an individual to do that, I will. But these individuals, like any other human being, have a tendency to really cooperate with you when there is some kind of rapport going on. And I differentiate greatly between compliance and cooperation. I don’t want compliance. I’m not looking for compliance. Compliance means a person will tell me whatever they think I want to hear. That’s not what I need. I want actionable intelligence.”

Amélia raised her eyebrow again.

“So here’s for your rapport: your colleague’s standard interrogation technique gave me nightmares that last to this day and made me claustrophobic. The fact that I literally vanished from the face of the Earth for fourteen hours made my father have a heart attack and almost die.”

“And I am truly and legitimately sorry for that, Amélia. You and your family didn’t deserve this and I wish that my colleagues hadn’t failed you so many times.”

She looked at him, stumped, for a few moments, half-eaten ramen bowl forgotten in front of her. And then she broke eye contact and turned her face to the window with silent tears running down her face. He reached out on the table and squeezed her hand. She let out a broken sob.

“I wasn’t trying to make you cry…” He whispered.

“I feel pathetic, to be frank. My best friend’s funeral mass was today and what finally makes me cry is a FBI agent saying that he’s sorry for my booboo.” She tried to clean the tears from her face with her free hand, but she couldn’t stop crying.

“That’s not what happened here and you know it.”

“What happened here, then?”

“An ounce of reparation. From what you just told me, you and your family have been victimized over and over by law enforcement for the past 47 years, at least. And now there’s an employee of the agency that personally harassed you saying to you that you’re human, you should be treated with dignity, and I’m sorry for your pain and your loss.”

“You could get in serious trouble for saying that.”

“Yeah? Are you planning on suing the agency and making me admit in court that I think that even suspects of terrorism should be treated with fairness?” He gave a small smile and she let out a watery laugh.

Spencer tried to not get disappointed when she let go of his hand to grab some paper tissues on her small handbag. She cleaned her face and blew her nose. And then she took a deep breath and looked at him very seriously.

“Fine,” she declared.

“Fine?”

“Do you know about Masha already?”

Spencer tried to remember this name. There was an interview from thirteen months ago with a woman named “Masha”. He had read the transcripts. Nothing stood out.

“What about Masha?”

“I don’t know her real name, that’s just how Charlie called her in her notes and when telling things to me. Masha died. She was murdered two months ago.”

Two months… Amélia smiled, bitter, when she saw the understanding spreading through Spencer’s face.

“When we looked at the database, there were no unsolved cases similar to Charlotte’s in the DC area,” he explained to her.

Amélia had finished her ramen and was drinking the tea now. His bowl had gone kind of cold, although it was delicious. He often forgot to eat when he got too focused on something.

“Masha’s case was solved. I don’t know if it’s a real connection to Charlie’s, I didn’t even know she had a will until an hour ago. But, when we were driving here, I remembered Masha.” Amélia took a moment looking at the window before speaking more. “I remember Charlie saying that Masha didn’t even make it to the serious local news. She showed up in Deanwood and her ex-boyfriend was arrested. But… but Charlie felt he was just a scapegoat.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, looking at her hands.

“You’re doing great, Amélia. You can take your own time.”

“I shouldn’t be talking to you without Eleanor present.” Amélia side-eyed him and Spencer’s heart rate went up, Emily’s “yet” coming back to his head.

“You’re not being interrogated, you’re just helping me find out who hurt your best friend.”

“You can’t promise me you will find him.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Promise me you care, instead.”

He shouldn’t promise her anything. Her challenge from earlier compelled him, appealed to him.

“I don’t need to promise you that, Amélia. I do care.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:
> 
> First things first: I'm trying REALLY HARD to make Spencer sound as smart as he should. For a few reasons, rewatching Criminal Minds and quoting things he already said is not possible (it's not available in my country for streaming, I don't have cable, and p!r4cy is out of question in the moment). That being said, I owe Jackie EVERYTHING for his smortness here.  
> As stated above, I can't rewatch the chapters now, and it's been a while since I last watched the show. So, I found out that my characters' choice for this case DO NOT match the cast present in Season 10 (2015). Forgive me, readers, for I have sinned. I chose the characters totally based on "who are my favorite babies?" and the year based on "what was the last year Brazil wasn't on fire?". As stated in the tags, this is a "canon adjacent" work and my approach here to canon is very Marie Kondo-like. As in, I'm only keeping what brings joy. (I'll add this note on the first chapter too, as a courtesy to the new readers and to try to make people don't give up on me)
> 
> On a second note: my babies are nerds, my esteemed members of the jury. They flirt through nerdiness.
> 
> One last thing: the OAS trial Amélia mentions really happened and her family history is inspired by a lot of stories that I know IRL. The president in question was Dilma Rousseff, the 9 to 5 torturer was inspired by [Colonel Carlos Alberto Brilhante Ustra](https://www.nytimes.com/2018/10/29/opinion/what-the-brazilian-dictatorship-did-to-my-family.html), and the fascist politicians she mentions are, among others, the current president of Brasil: [Jair Messias Bolsonaro](https://www.bbc.com/news/world-latin-america-36093338).
> 
> Leave comments, seek me on Twitter, I don't bite and I'm really curious to know your thoughts.


	6. The girl who cried wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In terror, the Girl ran towards the village shouting "Wolf! Wolf!", but though the villagers heard the cry, they did not ran up to help her, as they hadn't before, for they knew that women are not to be trusted with the truth.

When Amélia got back home on the Sunday, the hired cleaning crew was finishing up their last touches and, on the Bradfords behalf, only Laura’s assistant waited for her. She was a meek little thing. White, fat, small. Her face was unremarkable, she could easily disappear in the background of some conversation. Always dressed soberly, always measuring her words, Ashleigh had worked as an extension of Laura for the past fifteen years. She stepped out of her role supervising some intern who supervised the cleaning crew to speak with Mia, who was trying to, finally, get to the second floor of the house.

“Doctor Ferreira, how do you do?” Her tone was non-committal, the question was a mere formality to start a conversation.

“Tired,” was Amélia’s answer, grabbing the handrail on the stairs like it was her lifeline. “What can I do for you, Ashleigh?”

“I have scheduled a landscaping crew to come here tomorrow morning to repair the damages the guest did on the rose bushes and the grass. I will be here supervising them with my intern, Victoria.”

Amélia looked over Ashleigh’s shoulder, to where Victoria stood in the middle of her living room, looking at the cleaners like they could, at any given point, decide to chew her arm off. She was the girl with the clipboard from the church.

“Seems like a fun morning for you guys. Do you want me to have some breakfast assembled for you and the crew? To make myself scarce…?”

Ashleigh narrowed her eyes, not finding Mia amusing at all.

“There will be no need for any of that, doctor. I just wanted you to be aware of our presence.”

Mia did finger guns at Ashleigh with a fake smile plastered on her face.

“Consider me aware.”

“I will also be back in two days to do inventory and show the house to Mrs. Bradford’s real estate agent.”

“What? Already? They had told me I wouldn’t have to move for thirty days.”

Ashleigh let out a tired sound, her face contorted in a mimicry of the same contempt Laura showed when talking to Mia.

“Listen, _doctor_ , you’ve managed to sink your hooks into Miss Charlotte’s…”

“ _My hooks?_ ” Mia was shocked, Ashleigh had never been so openly aggressive towards her.

“...So why don’t you count your victories and just get out of their lives at once? Show an ounce of decency, even though that’s a rare quality for your kind.”

“My kind?!” Amélia had her eyes open wide. She took a deep breath and gave a fake smile to Ashleigh. “Honestamente, era só o que me faltava mesmo. Essa branquela tá tão acostumada a puxar o saco da patroa que acha que é um deles.” [1] Two workers who were mopping the floor snickered when Amélia said this.

“We’re in America, speak English!” Ashleigh’s voice was high-pitched now.

“I’m sorry, me really tired,” Amélia exaggerated her accent. “I mean to say: fine, Ashleigh, have a blast showing off the property. Pretend you lived here as well. I will be in my room now, I hope you guys are already leaving.”

Without letting Ashleigh answer, Mia turned her back to her and went up the stairs. Salem was sitting by her bedroom’s door when she entered and he meowed in protest to being left all day alone. There was still food in his bowl and his fountain worked normally, but he was lonely. Mia drew herself a bath and sat on the closed toilet caressing him while she checked her texts, waiting for the bath to fill.

There was a string of texts from Eleanor on her GC with Mia and Ewa.

“Mate, where are you???????

Ames, are you ok?????? We’re getting worried.

Ewa just told me that the guy by the door said he saw you being followed by that Reid guy.

Amélia, you better show up. I’ve just threatened his boss saying we will move heaven and earth if you disappear.

??????????????

I WILL call 911 if you don’t say anything until 5 pm.”

Amélia checked the time, it was almost 3pm yet. She let out a sigh and started answering her friends.

“hey guys, i’m fine. nothing happened”

Immediately, Eleanor and Ewa started typing back.

“THANK GOD!!!!!!!” Ewa was the first to answer.

“ **Oh yeah? Then say something that only you would know.”** Elanor sent almost at the same time, with a suspicious emoji at the end of the sentence.

“i was never able to stay awake during the whole lord of the rings movie”

“ **Gasp. Ok, that checks. This is your biggest and most secret flaw.”**

“I’ve never got those movies either, I don’t know how that’s a flaw.”

“ **You’re not a nerd, my love. No one will hold that against you.** ”

To get on their good side, Amélia sent them a selfie with Salem and wrote “proof of life” underneath it.

“Awwww Saleeeem. I’ve missed him today, is he too upset?”

“ **We will get on that later. Now, first things first: where the hell have you been?** ”

“i went to each lunch at the mitsuba

being attacked by my dead-ex’s mother was not how i had planned for this day to go”

“So, apparently, we found out what Laura Bradford fears more than a scandle. The fact that you’re on her daughter’s will. Do you have any idea what Charlotte left you?”

“nope

not even a clue

some personal items, prolly her books”

The tub was full and Mia closed the faucet. Salem complained when she got up, laying on the fluffy bathroom mat soon after. When she entered it, the water was deliciously warm. Her bathtub wasn’t as jacuzzi like the one on Charlotte’s room, but it had pretty golden claws and Mia could almost fit entirely inside it. She grabbed her phone again and there were more texts from Eleanor.

“ **Don’t think I’ll let this go. What did Doctor Reid want with you earlier today?** ”

“to make sure i was ok”

“ **I can’t believe you fell for that. They’re not our friends, Ames. He’s not your friend.** ”

Mia bit her lower lip, considering what she should say.

“do u want to keep having this talk as my friend or as my lawyer?”

A notification from her private chat with Eleanor showed up on her screen.

“ **‘sup?** ”

“u don’t inspire a lot of professionalism like that”

“ **You’re paying me $20 you already owed me and an endless supply of coxinhas. This is the exact level of professionalism you deserve.** ”

“u suck”

“ **You love me.**

 **Stop stalling. How did you interaction with the pretty-faced G-man go down today?** ”

“fine

he was really nice

he bought lunch”

“ **He did what?????????????**

**Without your lawyer???????**

**ARE YOU INSANE???????** ”

“i’m not being accused of anything

chill”

“ **Amélia, for someone with an IQ of 180, you can be pretty dumb sometimes.**

**You’re not CURRENTLY being accused of anything.**

**ANYTHING you say to these guys can and WILL show up in a court of law.**

**When you left, did he stay behind?** ”

“no, we got out together

he brought me home”

“ **Ok, so as far as we know, he didn’t steal one of your napkins to put your DNA on the CODIS.**

 **They do that. You know it, right?** ”

“yes, i know

i remember zarif’s case”

“ **Doesn’t seem like it.**

 **What else? What did you talk about?** ”

“doctor who”

**“Ames, I’m being serious. I’m not trying to pry in for hot gossip or (just) scold you for being reckless.**

**I am your barrister. I need to know this stuff.**

**I mean, I was meaning to speak with you. Ishaan and I agreed that he would be in touch with me when the Bradfords scheduled the reading of the will or he filed his petition with a judge. We need to consider that you might need to hire a criminal attorney and not give anything else to the FBI that’s not court mandated.** ”

“what do u mean?”

“ **We don’t know what’s on that will, right? You genuinely had no idea that Charlotte had written it?** ”

“yes, ellie, i had no idea that charls had a will”

“ **So it could be anything.**

**Charlotte was paranoid. She hired a different barrister from her parents, she used an alias, she didn’t tell any of her friends what she was doing.**

**People do weird things when they feel cornered, Ames.**

**This will could be leaving everything to charity, like you think it’s going to be, and just a few trinkets for you. Or she could be leaving you with a lot of money, what would make the FBI suspicious of your innocence. Or she could say something insane, like she thought you were going to kill her. Which would also make the FBI suspect you.** ”

“charlie would never think i would hurt her, ellie”

“ **Look, two years ago, Charlotte only drinked Moet & Chandon and Veuve Clicquot and used disposable wipes to clean the seats of the non-posh places she went with us.**

**And then Browne started fucking her and fucking her her head and she decided to play ‘girl, interrupted’.**

**Let’s be honest here, Ames.**

**We have no idea of what Charlotte would or wouldn’t think anymore.** ”

Amélia wanted to correct her. To say this wasn’t true, she still knew Charlie like the back of her hand. But she knew it was pointless.

“i told him about masha”

“ **Why? Isn’t the guy who killed her in jail?** ”

“charlie didn’t think so”

“ **Well, let’s hope your newfound appreciation for tall and blonde FBI agents doesn’t come back to bite you in the ass later.** ”

***

“So our dear friend Masha’s actual name was Natalya Ivanova. She was born in Penza, just 370 miles south of Moscow, in 1983.” The BAU team was together at the conference room and Penelope was introducing their new possible lead. “She came to the US with a Temporary Worker Visa in February of 2000, listed as a model for this agency.” At the screen, Penelope projected the logo of Natalya/Masha’s agency. “Elite Models is a legit nation-wide model agency and they have headhunters all over the world. Natalya won a miss contest in 1999 and she was scouted to the US soon after.”

On the screen, there was a picture of young Natalya. She was tall and slender, as models usually are. Her hair was so blonde it was almost white, her eyes were piercing blue, her nose was small, and her bone structure was very defined.

“She disappeared from our radar for ten years, between 2002 to 2012, when she appeared at a hospital all battered and bruised, using her street name: Irina Petrovna. She never told the nurse who did it to her, but Piotr Kuznetsov, also Russian citizen, living legally in the US since the 1990s, signed her hospital’s release forms. On some notes from DC Vice detectives, Piotr appears constantly as a pimp, whose girls are high-end, but they also have the griesly tendency to appear bruised. No charges were ever pressed against him because the girls are fiercely loyal to him.”

“They are also probably really afraid of him. From Charlotte’s notes of her interview with ‘Masha’, she sent all of her money to her family, to care for her younger sister and nephews.If this guy has connections to the russian mob, maybe he threatens their families,” Luke offered.

Penelope frowned at him, as she usually did when Luke spoke to her, especially if she was in the middle of a presentation.

“If _some people_ could let me get to the end of my collected data, I would get to that. Yes, Luke, the Vice detectives got to the same conclusion as you. However, Piotr’s connections to the Russian mob are, at best, very slim. What the MPD did managed to find him guilty of, however, was Natalya’s murder.”

The next slide had pictures of Natalya’s body. She had old bruises that had begun to heal, fresh bruises on her face that barely got the chance to settle before she died, strangulation marks on her neck, ligature marks on her hands, and she had been raped. Her body was found in an alley on Deanwood.

“Why did they pin this on Piotr again?” JJ asked, looking at the file.

“Besides his well accounted misogyny? It was considered an open and shut case by the MPD, solved in the record time of 72 hours. The rape kit found that one of the samples of DNA inside her was from him and they found one of his pubic hairs on her,” Penelope answered, shuddering. “And, you know, his alibi was that he was home with another girl, partying.”

“And then the girl confessed that she was sleeping at the estimated time of Natalya’s murder, while Piotr alledgedely stayed awaken in the living room snorting coke and watching a soccer match. Which, in turn, made him confess to Natalya’s murder.” Emily added.

“And the other sample of semen inside of her?” JJ had that line between her eyebrows from she found that something was odd. “Natalya was an experienced pro, a high-end escort. I buy that she wasn’t using condoms with her pimp boyfriend, but I don’t see her having an unprotected consensual relationship with another man.”

“Maybe this was the inconsistency that Charlotte found as well. I mean, her notes got really scarce from the last six months forward and I think that she had to have a secret notebook, another laptop, a pendrive, something, because I’ve scoured her macbook and her clouds and there’s zilch, nada.” Penelope said, tapping on her chin the pink sparkly feathered pen she had on her hands.

“Can we trust what Doctor Ferreira said about Charlotte’s murder being connected to this girl’s?” Tara intervened. “I mean, I wasn’t taking her seriously as our unsub, just as an extremely suspicious person with shady contacts due to the nature of her work. But I find it extremely odd that, after a week of walls completely up, she decides to cooperate with our investigation, in a direction that’s not related to Charlotte’s personal life in any way, on the day that we found out that she was named as one of Charlotte’s heirs. She could have a secret accomplice or asked a favor for one of her ‘persecuted by the law enforcement’ friends of her NGO…”

Spencer opened up to speak, but Garcia cut him out.

“I mean, not saying that Doctor Ferreira couldn’t be our unsub, we’ve seen weirder things happening here, but it’s true that Charlotte didn’t believe that Piotr was responsible for Natalya’s murder. ‘Valerie Lamarr’ appears on several of the notes on the 3rd District guys from the last two months as a very annoying witness, insisting that they should reopen Natalya’s case and they had the wrong man. Not only that, but my name search using ‘Valerie Lamarr’ showed that she called a few different newspapers, using several payphones in the city, asking them to go dig Natalya’s case.”

“...And no one heard her,” Spencer muttered, remembering his lunch with Amélia from the last day. “Do we have access to a DNA sample from the semen found inside Natalya?” He asked, turning to Emily.

“We should have… Garcia, why wasn’t the other sample uploaded on CODIS?” she answered.

“I have no idea, my esteemed sovereign. What I _can_ tell you is that the detectives didn’t even look in this direction and never registered the sample anywhere. The physical sample is logged amongst the items of this case on the MPD storage, however.”

“That’s weird… Isolated, isn’t necessarily anything. It could be a simple procedural mistake, though,” Emily said, more to herself than the others.

“I was thinking we should compare to the sample found on Charlotte. It’s like JJ said: they wouldn’t be going bareback with random clients, so, since we have verified that Charlotte’s sample isn’t a match to Professor Browne, I think we should at least see if they coincide,” Reid explained.

“Are we thinking that these could not only be linked, but the product of the same person?” Rossi asked, picking up the physical pictures of the cases, as he insisted on having. “I mean, they do bear some similarities, but why the abrupt change in the method of disposal?”

“So the cases wouldn’t be connected,” JJ answered. “In this case, the unsub probably knew them both, they could be a John or another guy on Piotr’s _business_ , so they knew it would be too strange if another girl from the same escort agency appeared dead not even two months after the first, with a very similar MO.”

“They were counting on Charlotte’s murder to be pinned on Piotr,” Luke said.

“And with _Valerie_ never being identified.” Added Rossi. “If that’s true, I believe that they had no idea of who she really was until last week.”

“I will say what everyone is thinking here now: if we are dealing with a second murder with this consistency of MO, we will find more girls. Natalya’s murder is too refined, too self-assured, for it to be the work of a novice.” Emily stood up as she spoke. “We probably couldn’t see it on Charlotte’s body due to the fire and the exposure, but, if her murder is connected to Natalya, this will probably give us the opportunity to observe the unsub’s work at it’s purest form. JJ, I want you on the Bradfords to be sure that the will reading will happen this week. Charlotte was paranoid and keeping secrets to the point of using an alias when she hired Mr. Acharya, so it’s probable there’s something there that’s important to us. Luke and Tara, I want you to go to Vice and MPD and get everything they remember from Natalya’s murder. Figure out why this was resolved so quickly. Get the box with the items from her case on storage, we will analyze them here. Rossi, you and I are going to pay a visit to Mr. Kuznetsov in jail and see what he has to say in his favor. Penelope, besides continuing to try to find the missing part of Charlotte’s notes, I want you to dig everything you can about Natalya. Nothing is out of scope.” She stopped speaking for a moment, looking at the team. “Having in mind what Tara reminded us about Doctor Ferreira, dig more about her too, Pen. I want to know about her parking tickets.”

Spencer hadn’t told them about Amélia’s encounter with the FBI in 2005. He felt like it wasn’t a really important piece of information to share at that moment with the team, not compared to “Masha”, at least. The other reason was that Amélia finally trusted him. She had confided in him and this relationship was delicate. To keep her as a cooperative witness, he would have to keep working on their rapport.

“Spencer,” Emily interrupted his thoughts. “Go to Doctor Ferreira’s house. See if she will allow you to search the place again. I want Charlotte’s notes. This girl was after something and I’m getting more and more convinced that it was no coincidence that our unsub found her first.”

***

Amélia was sitting in her garden, a steaming cup of coffee on her hands and a blanket around her shoulders, with Salem snoring on her legs, when he arrived. It was 11 a.m., the landscaping crew had already left when he texted asking if he could drop by to talk some more about the case. She had put on denim pants and a Doctor Who T-shirt under her sweater. Not that he would see it, but it was a token of her goodwill. He could be one of her colleagues from Georgetown, with his floppy hair and tweed jacket, waving at her from the other side of the gate. She got up, breathed in the chilly autumn air, and walked towards him to open the door, Salem in tow.

“Where is your partner?” She asked while unlocking the gate.

“Partner?”

“Doctor Lewis?”

“Do you like her better?” He asked, walking beside her to the house. Amélia laughed and hid her face on her coffee cup.

“She’s alright… For a Fed.”

He laughed too.

“And I’m not?”

“I’m opening my house to you and inviting you to drink horrible coffee with me, isn’t it not?” Salem, the traitor, took advantage of the moment they were standing by the door, while Amélia unlocked it, to rub himself on Doctor Reid’s legs.

He looked down, seeming confused and delighted.

“Oh, hi. Hello. You’re a big boy, aren’t you?” His voice was impossibly soft when he crouched to scratch Salem’s ears. The cat started purring and, after a few seconds, he threw himself on the floor, belly up. Reid made a movement like he was going to pet his belly.

“If you have any appreciation for your left hand, I would advise against touching his tummy,” Amélia warned him, standing by the door and watching the two of them.

“Oh, Salem, you play nice just so you can bite officers of the law? Did your mommy teach you that?” Amélia laughed, going inside the house. When he saw she wasn’t around anymore, Salem got up and followed her, meowing and complaining she had left him behind.

“So, what brings you here?” Amélia asked, walking to her kitchen.

Reid closed the door behind him and followed her. The kitchen had dark marble countertops, including an island on its center. All appliances were very fancy and had been bought during the renovations of the house. Amélia always felt like she lived in a design magazine in that house. Even the cutlery was monogrammed and the glasses were made of crystal.

“Masha was a good lead. I was wondering if maybe you would let me take a second look on Charlotte’s things with this in mind.”

“Sure,” Mia said, opening her fridge. “Did you eat already? Do you want a mini quiche? Eleanor convinced the caterer to pack my fridge with leftovers like I was out of my mind with the grief or something.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” He sat on one of the tall benches by the kitchen island.

“You bought me food twice and now you’re refusing when I offer you my own?” Amélia tutted at him, shaking her head. “I will end up thinking you want me to be indebted with you or something.”

“You’re not indebted to me,” Spencer reassured her.

“Doctor Reid,” Amélia turned to him with a cocked eyebrow, “in my culture, is terribly rude of a guest to not eat or drink when they’re at someone’s place. I thought you were trying to build rapport with me.”

“Is it, so?” He was smiling, amused.

Amélia kept pressing.

“I could make an argument based on Marcel Mauss’ “The gift”, from 1925, that you want to be the one providing for me to assert your position of power in our relationship.”

“And the alternative explanation that I might simply not be hungry is not good enough for you?”

“When was the last time you ate?” She asked him.

“That’s besides the point.”

“No, but you see, that’s precisely my point. How can I trust you if you don’t trust me?”

They stayed in a staring contest for a few moments, until Spencer let out a sigh.

“Fine, warm up some quiche and a cup of horrible coffee for me.”

Amélia giggled, grabbing two onion quiches from the fridge and putting them in the electric oven.

“Can we talk about the case now?” He asked when she poured him coffee in a R2D2 shaped mug.

“Do you want sugar, milk…?”

“I’ll take both to disguise a bit the taste of your coffee,” he joked.

“You’re insulting me now,” she joked back.

“It was you who sold it as ‘horrible’ from the start.”

“In such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable.” When he didn’t react to her quote, Mia scoffed, faltering shock. “You’re not a Jane Austen fan, doctor?”

She put the milk and the sugar in front of him, and he stirred his coffee after serving himself. Reid took a sip of the coffee and was barely able to disguise his disgusted face.

“This is an insult to coffee,” he told her. “I was never a fan of romance novels.”

She gasped and put a hand on her chest.

“First, Jane Austen’s influence on Western culture surpasses the concept of romance novels. Secondly, what romances have you ever read to say you don’t like it?”

“I… The whole concept of a couple meets and then they have to fight to be together until, in the end, they obviously get together and get married and live happily ever after has never appealed to me.” He shrugged.

Amélia snickered at him and rolled her eyes.

“Why are you rolling your eyes at me?” He seemed genuinely offended.

“Because, although you’re entitled to your opinions, your opinion on the subject is dumb.” She poured herself some more coffee, even though it was, in fact, an offense to the concept of coffee. “Why wouldn’t I be interested in a world where my heroines end up with the people they have fallen for and they’re happy together forever? It’s not all that I read, of course, but it can be comforting.”

“Like ramen?”

She felt tenderness towards him.

“Yes, like ramen.”

“Ok. I will read Jane Austen then, for a crumb of your respect.”

Amélia was glad that he was looking at his coffee mug instead of at her, because she felt a blush creeping on her cheeks. She turned to check the quiches at the oven.

“Tell me something about you,” she asked, before she could stop herself.

“What do you wanna know?” He asked.

“How was it like going to college at 12?” The quiches were ready and she took them out and assembled them on two plates.

“You looked me up?”

“Wouldn’t you?” She placed one of the plates in front of him. He kept looking at her. “I looked all of you up, you know. Just the public stuff, social media, that sort of stuff.”

“I see. And did you get to any conclusions?”

Mia took the first bite of her quiche. It was delicious. She got a bit sad that she hadn’t the opportunity to taste them when they were fresh, on the prior day.

“That your team is highly qualified. You tend to back your investigations with a lot of proof and none of you have recent reports of police brutality. In my networks, your team is considered… not the worst.”

He was eating with more eagerness than expected, for someone who supposedly wasn’t hungry.

“I feel honored to get so many high praises from you today, Amélia.” He chuckled. “Lonely. That was my experience in college as a 12 year-old in Nevada. My mom was very sick and I had to share my time between my studies and caring for her.”

“Her PhD thesis in 15th century Italian literature was breathtaking.”

He raised his eyes to her, surprised.

“When did you read it?”

“Yesterday, to understand you better.”

“It’s over 200 thousand words and several passages are in Italian.” He had one of his eyebrows raised.

Amélia crooked her neck and raised her eyebrow back at him.

“Si, perché?”

He smiled at her.

“But, although I speak eight languages and read an average of 4 thousand words per minute, hard math never was really my thing, so I regret to inform you that I only read your undergrad papers. They were interesting.” She licked her spoon, considering if she would warm up another quiche. “I hope that, in the past twenty years, you have learned to consider more the social context of an academic text in order to construct your critique of it.”

“Why do I have a feeling that this is about the only B plus I ever got in my life?” Reid groaned.

“It absolutely is about the passionate defense you wrote of Rousseau in opposition of Hobbes, failing to consider that about one hundred years separate them both and the politics involved in their arguments _are_ their arguments.”

“I was fourteen.” Reid defended himself.

“Yes, and, also, your professor was pretty mediocre and your paper back then already surpassed anything he ever wrote in his life.” Amélia noticed that his cheeks got tinted of pink when she praised him, like they had been on the day before. She archived that information for future use.

He cleaned his throat and rested his fork. And then he grabbed his phone and frowned at the screen, put it back on his pocket right after.

“My unit commanding officer, SSA Emily Prentiss, just texted me that they reviewed the confession tape from Mr. Kuznetsov’s deposition to the MPD and it is pretty clear that he was coached by the detective leading the case to take the blame for Natalya’s murder. My colleagues are going to the MPD’s storage building and we are officially reopening her case.”

“Natalya? Was that Masha’s actual name?”

“What I’m telling you here is absolutely confidential and it’s due to me being completely convinced that not only you’re innocent, but you’re also a potential asset to this investigation, Amélia. Do you understand?” He was suddenly very serious speaking to her and Amélia gulped when she nodded. She shouldn’t like being scolded by that gringo detective. Shouldn’t. “Yes. Natalya Ivanova was her birth name and Irina Petrovna was her name as an escort. What’s that? That flash in your eyes? Do these names mean anything to you?”

“Yes. Actually, surprisingly. Yes.” She chewed her bottom lip again. “It could be nothing, but… Come with me.”

She almost ran up the stairs, explaining her thought process to him as they climbed up.

“So, Charlie’s street name was Valerie Lamarr, she asked for Mr. Acharya’s office to register her as Norma Jean Mortenson, and now you’re telling me that Natalya’s pseudonym was Irina Petrovna?”

“Yes.”

“What do these names have in common, Spencer?” They had gotten to the top of the stairs and Mia was running down the hallway to the direction of her bedroom.

“I have no idea.”

Amélia suddenly stopped at her bedroom door and he almost collided with her before he managed to stop too. She had a triumphant expression on her face.

“If you didn’t despise romance and pop culture so much, maybe you could have gotten here before me.” She was smiling like the time her undergrad mentor in NYU declared Amélia had surpassed her. His chest was heavily rising and falling and his cheeks were red. It was such a short sprint, how could he be tired?

“Do you care to share your thoughts or are you going to continue to gloat?” He spoke in that serious voice that made her stomach flutter.

“Lamarr was the last name of Heidy Lamarr. Norma Jean Mortenson was the real name of Marilyn Monroe. And Irina Petrovna was a famous soviet actress. They are all famous, actually. Great actresses of their time. Now for the part that you _don’t_ know: six months ago, Charlie gave me a book with short biographies of the 1000 most famous actresses of the 20th century. You said yesterday that you guys couldn’t find a lot of her notes on her things. I’m thinking… what if her notes _aren’t_ among her things?”

“Why would they be with you?” He asked.

“I don’t know, but they could.”

She got inside her room and was relieved that the meds helped her feel like organizing her things and cleaning on the regular basis. It was a big room, for DC’s standards. For starters, it was a suite with a small walk-in closet. There was space for her double bed, her bureau, and her six shelves of books. Technically speaking, this furniture had been bought with Charlotte’s money over the years, but it was hers. Amélia tried to reach on the high shelf where the book they needed was, unsuccessfully. While she was getting the small step she kept in her room for that end, Reid put on his gloves, took a picture of the shelf as he found it, and picked up the book.

A dried rose, probably from their garden, fell from the top of the book on the floor when he did it. Mia crouched to pick it up. Reid held her by her shoulder, put an evidence tag beside the flower, and took a picture of it. He got an evidence bag from his breast pocket and bagged it.

“It’s our signal,” she whispered reverently. “When we got each other’s presents while the other was out, we would pick up a rose from the garden and put it on top of the gift.”

“When was the last time you cleaned this shelf?” He asked her.

“About a month ago. It was the last time I deep cleaned my room.” He nodded with her answer. “Do you think that Charlotte had something planned when she left for field work?”

“It’s too soon to jump into conclusions, Amélia. Currently, I’m just trying to establish a timeline.” He opened the book, that he had left resting on Mia’s bureau, and took a picture of the first page. There was a rose petal there. But nothing more.

“Go to Irina Petrovna,” she told him. They were really close and Amélia could feel the heat emanating from his body.

There was another rose petal there. Reid took a picture of it too. He started to flip the pages. Some actresses had rose petals on their sessions, some didn’t. To each petal, Reid took a picture with his phone.

“Audrey, Ava, Ava, Brigitte, Claudia, Catherine, Grace, Ingrid, Irina, Marlene, Mia, Rita, Sophia… And there’s more… Reid, if each of those names is a girl Charlotte found, how many women did this guy kill?” A cold feeling washed over her. “And why was she so paranoid and afraid?”

He didn’t meet her eyes when he closed the book and bagged it.

“Amélia, listen to me very carefully: if you’re right, we need to close this house completely to sweep for evidence. Since this book was found in your room, we will have to search your things too.”

Her heart thumped loudly on her ears with that. He turned to her, looking in her eyes.

“You are not a suspect. Unless the secrets you’re afraid of getting out are serious crimes, we are not going to prosecute anything we find here that’s not connected to our investigation.”

“What do you consider as ‘serious crimes’?” She asked, hating how small her voice was.

“Did you murder someone? Kidnap a person? Comit rape? Are you or have you ever blackmailed a person? Threatened someone?” She denied with her head, still unable to relax. “Did you ever aid and abet a fugitive?”

She went very still like a deer under headlights. Reid got more serious and took a deep breath.

“Do not admit anything to me.” He could lose his job for not reporting her if he knew she had committed a crime. “Amélia, hypothetically, if you had ever aided and abetted a fugitive, what type of crime did this imaginary fugitive do?”

She needed to trust him. The names of the girls Charlotte separated for her were echoing in her head. The man who killed Charlotte wouldn’t stop killing. She needed to help.

“Hypothetically, if I were to ever help someone escape the law,” she finally spoke, choosing her words carefully, “it would have been someone’s whose visa had expired and they would have been wanted by ICE for using a fake social security number or non-violently selling illegal drugs. Hypothetically.”

A crease appeared on his brow. He was considering what to do.

“If you were to have proof of said fictional crimes, where would you keep those proofs?”

“I wouldn’t. Not anymore.”

“None?” He insisted.

“I have written papers about activists who do such things and I have notes on my laptop and my notebooks about said activists. None of them are me and there’s not a single note saying I’ve helped the actions of said activists.”

His shoulders relaxed.

“You have nothing to worry about, Amélia.”

She drew a deep sigh with that and felt her shoulders relaxing too.

“I will send these pictures to my colleagues, ok? And then we could take a look around your room al…” He trailed off when he opened his phone, so Mia decided to do the same.

“ **Ames, if you don’t answer this text in 30 minutes, I will call you.**

**I know you hate phone calls, but this is time sensitive.**

**Are you available this afternoon at 2 p.m. to go to Ishaan’s office and see what was on Charlotte’s will, after all? Her parents finally gave in. Apparently, some FBI girl called JJ was able to talk some sense into their heads.**

**It’s super close to an underground station, so you can go by yourself with no problem at all.**

**Text me back ASAP, ok?”**

When she raised her head, he was still typing on his phone.

“yeah, no prob

i can get there in time

ill take the subway”

“ **Cool. See you in two hours, then.**

**Don’t forget to eat lunch.**

**Text me when you’re getting there, we can go up together** ”

“r u coming 2?”

“ **What? Would you deprive me of seeing Laura Jean Bradford go nuts when she finds out that Charlotte left you something she won’t even miss to begin with?** ”

“fine

we go in together”

“ **YAAAAAAY**

 **I love you so much!!!!** ”

“u r watching 2 much telenovelas

u r addicted to drama”

“ **If that’s a veiled criticism about me, I won’t hear it and I won’t respond to it.”**

This made Mia snort and put her phone back in her pocket. Reid apparently had started to go through her books while she texted.

“Anything interesting?” She asked him.

“No more recent roses or rose petals, But Jane Austen is snarky.” He had the leather bound edition of Pride and Prejudice that Charlotte had given her a few years ago. He barely raised his eyes to look at her, flipping through the pages of the book like he could find a murderer there. Mia had to suppress a victorious smile.

“You could say that. Hm, listen, I’ll have to go. The Bradfords have finally agreed to do the reading of the will and I have to be there in two hours.”

He finally closed the book and looked at her, still holding it close to his chest.

“I can take you, if you want. Probably Prentiss will want at least one person from the team there.”

Amélia chewed her lip, considering his proposition.

“Hm… Ok. But can I ask you something stupid?”

“I doubt that you’re capable of asking something stupid.”

Amélia couldn’t resist the impulse to mock him.

“I pity you, Doctor Spencer Reid, if you never do anything stupid.” He opened his mouth to argue, but Amélia cut him off. “Can you leave me on the corner of the street? I don’t want to explain to Eleanor why we are arriving together.”

He frowned.

“There’s nothing inappropriate happening here.” When he said this, Amélia felt a pang of disappointment in her stomach. Oh no. This was bad. “I don’t see why you should hide from your friend, who is also your lawyer, that you’re collaborating with an FBI investigation.”

She took a step back and laughed, like it was nothing.

“No, it’s not that. I totally plan to tell her. I have told her already. About our lunch yesterday I mean. But it’s… it’s complicated. She doesn’t like it. More precisely, doesn’t like everything you stand for.”

He seemed to be calculating something.

“And you don’t?”

Amélia swallowed.

“I want to believe that, if anyone can make this guy stop killing, it’s you and your team. And I’m willing to take the risks needed to help you do that.”

“You are not alone, Amélia.” The fact that she knew he was using her first name as a way to keep mining her defenses didn’t affect the reality that she felt her heart flutter when he did it.

“Are you going to protect me, doctor?” But she could do it too. She could plunge a knife and twist in his feelings. She could try to make this case as important to her as it was to him.

“That’s my job.”

  
  


***

They ate more of the leftovers that were crowding her fridge and Amélia declared that they were equal now. Two meals for two meals. Spencer just laughed it off. This new way of her behaving towards him seemed too fragile and too good to be true. He shouldn’t let himself fantasize with closing this case and then connecting over books and Doctor Who. She went into her bedroom to change clothes and he stayed in the living room reading the news from the case.

Besides realizing that Piotr had been blatantly coached to confess to Natalya’s murder ― with the detective in charge feeding him the MO and even how her body had been disposed and the clothes she was wearing at the time of her death ― the evidence box had disappeared from the MPD’s storage unit. The BAU wouldn’t be able to compare the DNA from the semen found in Natalya with the one found in Charlotte. When Emily and Rossi arrived at the county jail, Piotr refused to talk to them about the case and insisted that he had killed Natalya. Emily was contacting a trusted judge of hers to get an exhumation order for Natalya’s body so they could try to find any usable DNA.

Penelope found some usable info on the recovered texts from Natalya’s phone. There were girls going in and out of the business all the time, but, in the past six years, some of them were simply _disappearing_ from the DC area. Something like three to four girls a year that no one could declare missing because they were mostly illegally in the country, like Natalya. From the twenty-two missing girls, Penelope was able to find out that five were alive and well and had just gone back to their countries or moved states. Two were in prison. Penelope matched the face of one of them to a Jane Doe who had died in a car accident three years ago. Fourteen women remained unaccounted for.

Of the fourteen, twelve were white, blonde or had bleached their hair, with blue eyes, and had been born in the 1980s. Although Charlotte was shorter than most of them, she fit the rest of the profile perfectly. They were almost certain that this was a serial case and the unsub had been working for years, perfecting his macabre craft. The question remained of why Charlotte started to keep hidden notes six months ago and went completely paranoid with Natalya’s murder. Another thing that bothered Spencer was the fact that twelve women had vanished from the face of the Earth without leaving a trace for six years ― probably there were more for a longer time ― but then Natalya’s body was discarded in the middle of the street, to be found, and the disposal of Charlotte’s body had been subpar. The unsub almost certainly had no idea of who Charlotte really was, otherwise, they would have made a bigger effort in making her disappear too.

“Hey, I’m ready. Can we go now?” Amélia was standing beside the chair Spencer was seated on. She was still wearing the same pair of denims, now she had put on a pair of ankle boots on her feet, but she changed her sweater for a long black wool cardigan and wore a TARDIS T-shirt underneath it.

“I like your shirt,” he said, getting up. She smiled like the Chesire cat at him.

“I want to make sure you remember that you care.”

About her? About the case? As if he could think of anything else in the past ten days. He wanted to take her for coffee, decent coffee, and kiss her. But that was an unmovable impossibility. So, instead, he chuckled.

“Let’s go, then.”

The car ride to Mr. Acharya’s office was easy. Amélia insisted on playing some band called Florence and the Machine on his sound and she sang adorably off-key to the chorus of a song called “A kiss with a fist” and then laughed when he said the songs were “intense”. She was intense. A lot more than he had been able to guess through the years of collected newspaper articles. Oddly, Spencer liked it about her.

When he stopped at the corner of Mr. Acharya’s office street, she wrapped herself in her wool scarf and put her beanie on.

“It’s not that cold outside,” he said, more to make conversation than anything. He had always hated small talk. But he didn’t want her to leave the car just yet. To leave their bubble just yet. “Actually, due to Climate Change, this is supposed to be one of the warmest falls and winters we have had in human history. The Earth’s temperature has risen more than…”

“I know,” she cut him off, but her smile was warm. “But it’s like I was made for the summer. I was never able to adapt to the cold winters here in the North. A part of me keeps whispering that I should move to California again, but by the beach this time. Or any other place without real winters.”

“I… I like the fall. My birthday is just a few days before Halloween and my mom would let me eat Halloween candies and do scary stuff for it every year.” It was a stupid information about himself and she probably didn’t care about it. But her smile got bigger and warmer.

“I want to hear all about it, in another moment. Now I have to go, ok?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I’m sorry for keeping you here.”

“I will see you very soon, Spencer.” And then she left.

He waited for her to get inside the building safely before driving to the indoor garage to park.

The office Mr. Acharya worked for occupied the three final floors of the building. Spencer ended up riding the elevator with JJ, the Bradfords, and their lawyers. When they got to the lobby, Amélia was already there with Ms. Adeoye. The wind had made her hair look even more fluffy in a tangled mess of curls. Laura and Richard didn’t even acknowledge her and got in first, followed by their lawyers.

Mr. Acharya and a typographer were waiting for them in a conference room with big windows that allowed a breathtaking view of the city. Mr. Acharya was a handsome and charming man and, once more, he shamelessly flirted with Amélia when they interacted. Spencer had envy of him. And, also, other more twisted feelings he would only allow himself to examine in the privacy of his own room. He liked the fantasy, although he was so ashamed of it that he had never even voiced this out loud, of being shared by two beautiful people. In that specific case, ever since he met Amélia in person, he liked to fantasize that she would offer him up to other men or women, or offer herself to other men or women, and they would watch as the other was pleasured by faceless people. Not necessarily faceless, since Mr. Acharya was a great candidate for said fantasies.

After the regular pleasantries, Mr. Acharya got the sealed letter containing Charlotte’s will and opened it. It was really short.

“When I die, I leave all my possessions to my beloved and most esteemed friend, Amélia Ferreira Rodriguez.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:  
> [1] Honestly, on top of everything, this had to happen to me today. This cracker is so used to kissing her boss' ass she thinks that she's one of them.
> 
> a) Yes, Spencer is secretly very kinky. I rathed this E for a reason and it wasn't just that I use some heavy imagery to describe murders. If anyone is interested, they both are switchers/vers.
> 
> b) If you saw a Knives Out reference that's only because it's one of my favorite movies and Rian Johnson is a genius. If you found self-indulgent that the protag is now LOADED, you're right, this is a self-indulgent story.
> 
> c) AND WE FINALLY GOT TO MY "SERIAL KILLERS" TAG!!!
> 
> d) If you want to chat about murder Mysteries or see my threads with my fan cast for the OCs in this story (everyone has a face), come say hi [on Twitter!](https://twitter.com/nerd_leoa)


	7. Breadcrumbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They tried to leave the woods, but the forest animals had eaten all of Grethel's breadcrumbs.

Amélia saw Laura almost jumping over the conference table and trying to attack her again.

“Were you boinking my daughter, dyke?!”

Richard could barely contain her in his arms. He seemed furious too, by the look on his face.

“Mrs. Bradford, if you don’t restrain yourself, I will have to call security,” Ishaan said. He was a beautiful man, indeed.

She felt someone tugging on her arm.

“Ames, do you want to leave? You don’t need to hear those things.” Ah, it was Eleanor.

It was odd. The Xanax she took on the elevator shouldn’t have kicked in yet for Amélia to feel so… calm. Everything looked straight out of a telenovela, happening to this poor girl who a week ago just wanted to have her fellowship renewed so she could buy better coffee and help her parents. The sounds were kind of muffled, as if coming from under the water. Laura kept screaming a bunch of horrible things.

“Our lawyers will fight this in court! If you think that this little miss wetback thing can just _steal_ everything me and our husband worked so hard to give to our children…!”

Amélia couldn’t contain herself anymore. She started laughing. It was a high-pitched and horrible sound. Her whole body was shaking.

“Ames, Ames, are you ok?” Eleanor had grabbed her face with both hands and turned Amélia to look at her now.

From this angle, she could see the face of Doctor Reid and Agent Jareau. Spencer seemed worried.

“Ames?”

Ah, yes. She needed to answer Eleanor. It was the polite thing to do. Ok, she needed to stop laughing first. She took a deep breath. Eleanor was breathing with her.

“Good idea, let’s all collectively take a deep breath,” Ishaan suggested.

“I don’t want to take a deep breath, I want you to give this letter to my lawyer and let Mr. Donovan so he can be sure that it’s not a fraud,” Laura snarled.

Mr. Donovan was a sickly-looking and old white man who had been flown in from Boston to handle this mess. His hand was slightly shaking when he held the papers in his hands. Eleanor had let go of Amélia and now she was trying to focus on her breathing. Everything still seemed surreal, including the daggers Laura and Richard were shooting at her with their eyes.

Mr. Donovan’s second in command, his son Donny, joined his father on the analysis and they whispered between themselves before the older man spoke, turned to the Bradfords.

“Richard, Laura, this seems completely legit. This is a big, respectable office, and Mr. Acharya is a well-known lawyer. Like I explained to you earlier, we could hire specialists to analyse the papers, but there’s really no reason to doubt the legality of this whole process.” He pulled a square pocket from his suit and coughed on it. “And this is just referent to Charlotte’s estate, it has no influence over yours.”

“ _Just_ Charlotte’s estate? Her estate is now what? One hundred million dollars?” Richard finally spoke.

“One hundred and thirty four million dollars, Mr. Bradford,” Ishaan spoke. “And it consists of the house in DC with all of its possessions; her trust fund, which she gained full control over when she turned 25; and all her bank accounts. She also named Doctor Ferreira the executioner of her last wishes.”

“A week ago, the Bradfords went into the house with the excuse of looking at their daughter’s personal objects and took the persian rugs, the jewelry, and part of the cutlery with them,” Eleanor interjected.

Amélia turned to her, shocked.

“If this is true, I will have to ask you to repossess Doctor Ferreira of her things, since they are part of her inheritance, listed on Charlotte’s will,” Ishaan spoke, and there was a crease on his forehead.

“I… No, I mean…” Amélia tried to speak. This was _insane_.

Eleanor pinched her and snarled on her ear “Amélia, shut up”. She closed her mouth and went silent again.

“Is this true?!” Laura was spiraling again, now screaming with her lawyer. “She will get my great-aunt’s china and my grandmother’s emeralds?!”

“Unfortunately, Laura, both items were inherited by Charlotte from her respective family members, so they were hers to do as she saw fit.” The younger lawyer, Donny, was the one to answer Laura.

“Don’t you have no shame?” Laura turned to Amélia then, she was almost crying. Amélia felt nothing. “Are you really going to take my family’s heirlooms?!”

Amélia took a deep breath and spoke.

“Laura, I have no interest in turning this into a long judicial battle. If you return all the items to the house as a gesture of goodwill, I won’t mind going over a list of the objects you wish to keep in the family and analyze it with my lawyers. Does that work for you?” It could be petty to treat the Bradfords like that, but, now that the Xanax was kicking in and Mia could think clearly again, Charlotte’s message about what she thought of her family was pretty clear and they had treated her with nothing but contempt so far. “Mr. Acharya, is there anything on the will about Charlotte’s wishes for her body?”

“Yes, actually there is. Ms. Bradford wished to be cremated and then buried in The Gardens of Gethsemane Cemetery and have a tree of your choice, Doctor, planted on top of it. She wished for a non-religious small ceremony, with her close friends and family,” he answered.

“Is this legally binding?” Amélia added.

“Yes, everything in her will is legally binding,” Ishaan confirmed.

“Richard, Laura, will Mr. Acharya need to enter with a court order for you to return Charlotte’s body to my possession or are you ready to finally respect your daughter’s wishes?” There was a strange feeling of certainty settling in her bones. Charlotte gave her the power to guarantee her wishes. She gave her the code to find out who had killed her, the control over her funeral…

Laura let out a sob, got out and left the room, slamming the door on her way out. Richard looked like he was about to have a stroke.

“We don’t want anymore scandals, Amelia, but be reasonable. Why are you separating Charlotte from her family?” His voice was low and dangerous.

“I’m doing no such thing, Richard. The only thing I’m asking for us to do together is to respect your daughter’s last wishes. I told you, last week, that she wanted to be cremated, you didn’t believe in me.”

“Her body is already in Boston…” He started.

“I don’t mind if you realize the cremation in Boston and send the ashes to me via courier. As soon as it is possible, I will schedule the ceremony for their burial and you can send me the list of the people you think should be present.”

To Amélia’s surprise, Richard chuckled.

“I’m realizing now that we have always underestimated you, Amelia.”

“Yes, and you always said my name wrong too.”

“Fair enough. Are we done, Mr. Acharya? I wish to go check on my wife.” Richard was already standing up and buttoning up his jacket.

“Yes, Mr. Bradford. If your family accepts the contents of the will, we will only need the objects that were removed from the house and that you see that Ms. Bradford’s ashes are sent to Doctor Ferreira. The rest is just bureaucracy,” Ishaan answered them.

“Well, then, my lawyers will make sure you have everything you need. Mr. Acharya, Ms. Adeoye, agents, I’ll see myself out. If you aren’t found guilty of murdering my daughter, congratulations on being a successful gold-digger, Amelia.” With that final jab, Richard left.

“Mr. Donovan, Mr. Donovan, if you agree, I propose we take a brief break so our guests can leave and we can sort out the details of everything that needs to be done,” Mr. Acharya was standing too and he shook the hands of both Donovans, who agreed and left for coffee.

“Mr. Acharya, due to the nature of the investigation, we will need a full copy of Ms. Bradford’s will, if that’s not too much trouble,” Agent Jareau spoke.

“I’m so sorry, agent, but your presence here was entirely due to being invited by the interested parties. I would lose my reputation if I gave you a copy of Ms. Bradford’s documents. I could even lose my licence.”

“We could get a warrant,” she insisted. Amélia was intrigued by her. She looked like a Barbie doll, but her voice was firm and commanding.

“Please, by all means, do get a warrant,” Ishaan had a smile on his face.

“Mr. Acharya, this is a time-sensitive investigation,” it was Reid’s turn to try to plead with Ishaan.

“I’m so sorry, Doctor Reid, but, if you expedite a warrant, I’ll cooperate really soon.” And then he pointed at the door. “Now, if you please, I need to talk with Doctor Ferreira.”

“You will hear from us very soon, Mr. Acharya,” agent Jareau said, standing by the door. It sounded like a threat.

“I will be waiting, agents. Goodbye now.”

As soon as they left, Ishaan turned to Mia and Eleanor.

“Very well, then. I will need to ask you, Amélia, has Eleanor recommended a Criminal attorney for you already?”

“What?” Mia blinked a few times. Her head was still spinning with all that went down.

“If you are convicted of murdering Charlotte, you can’t inherit anything from her. And let’s just say that, from what I have seen in the last few days, Mr. and Mrs. Bradford seem to be really invested in guaranteeing that you can’t.”

“He is right, Ames, you need a criminal attorney.”

“What? No. That’s not needed. The FBI is not interested in me anymore,” Amélia argued.

“Who told you that?” Eleanor had an incredulous look on her face.

“S… Doctor Reid. He went to my place earlier and asked for my help with some things regarding the investigation.”

“Bloody hell, Amelia, and you believed him? What did you tell him?”

Amélia looked at Ishan, who was standing beside Eleanor’s chair.

“What I say to you is protected by attorney-client privilege?” She asked him.

“I’m technically Charlotte’s barrister, not yours…” He explained. “I mean, I could be yours. Let me do your will.”

“My will? I don’t have any money, at least not yet, I can’t pay you,” she argued.

“I will ask my assistant to draw a pro bono contract. Let’s agree here that, if you do inherit what Charlotte left you, you will hire us to manage your estate and you will pay me my hours.” He had that irresistible smile on his face.

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you can tell all of your new friends in jail that I am a terrible barrister. I’ll be back in a minute.”

And he left, leaving Eleanor and Amélia alone. Mia turned to her.

“Can we trust him?” She asked, whispering.

“Definitely more than we can trust your new chum, doctor tall and blonde,” Eleanor whispered back. “Why are you so certain that the FBI won’t follow its tradition and help to enforce white supremacy once more, Ames?”

“Charlie left me something at the house. A book.”

“I thought she had left you like five thousand books.”

“Not the library, Eleanor!” Amélia jokingly pushed her shoulder. “She left me a book with some notes. Masha was killed by a serial killer.”

“What?!” Eleanor was trying really hard to keep whispering. “And they think that the same guy killed Charlie too?”

Amélia confirmed with her head.

“I don’t know, Ames, I still think that the fact that you just inherited almost $140 million dollars is going to make them really compelled to throw this on you.”

“I don’t have the money to hire a criminal attorney now, Ellie. I barely have the money to pay you your twenty bucks. I’m not being accused of anything and I don’t think that I should freak out before I am.”

***

“Hey, what are you doing here? It’s late.” Spencer was pulled out of his daydream by Garcia’s voice.

He had been sitting in the briefing room alone for some time now, staring at the mural with the case evidence.

“I’m trying to think like the unsub. Understand why he would change his method of disposal with Natalya’s body. If we confirm that Natalya has the same DNA on her as the one on Charlotte, we should send a search party in the woods where Charlotte was found, but I bet we won’t find anything.”

She sat beside him, not looking at the pictures.

“Why is that?” She asked.

“He has been killing for at least six years. You’re trying to look at missing persons to see if more women show up in the neighbor states and the DC area fitting the profile and Luke is contacting his old network to see if more undocumented disappeared girls show up, but I think that we won’t find more bodies because there are no more bodies to be found. At least not here.”

“You think that Tatyana Petrovska, from 2009, was his first kill?”

“No. I keep wondering why Charlotte was so afraid and so paranoid. And how did the box with every evidence from Natalya’s case disappear from the MPD archives? And I come to the conclusion that our unsub is someone who knows police procedure. He knows people in the force. He knows how to vanish bodies. Maybe he’s not from here and he moved to DC six years ago.”

“Moved from where?”

Spencer laid back on his chair, trying to see if there was something he had missed.

“He’s a client. And someone who hires high-end escorts like Natalya, Charlotte, and the others is very rich. Someone who is able to influence police officers to botch a murder investigation is very powerful.”

“Do you think that everything that happened in Natalya’s case was on purpose?”

“I don’t know. You looked into the cops involved in the investigation. What do you know about them?” He turned to look at her. Garcia was frowning.

“It could be a conspiracy, but I think that Natalya showed up dead before the end of Detective DiMarco and Detective Smith’s shifts. Those two aren’t exactly squeaky clean. They were tired and annoyed at having to lose their weekend due to a dead hooker. I think it’s possible that it was just a regular case of bad police work. And they could have vanished with the box to avoid being reprimanded by IA. Emily and Rossi will join the IA to question them on the subject tomorrow. You could be right, boy genius, but this could be less complicated than you think.”

“It could be. But why was Natalya’s body disposed of in the middle of the street, instead of vanishing like the others?”

“I don’t know, Spencer. This is a question for you profilers to answer.”

***

“We have bad news,” Emily opened the briefing meeting with this sentence. “Piotr Kuznetsov died in a fight in the middle of the cafeteria this morning. Another inmate stabbed him with a shiv fifteen times before the guards were able to break it up.”

Spencer looked at Garcia, remembering their conversation from the prior day.

“With evidence disappearing and the fall guy being murdered in jail, this is starting more and more to sound like a cover up.” Was JJ who said the words dancing around Spencer’s head. From the looks of his teammates, everyone was thinking pretty much the same.

“This is a distinct possibility, but we have no evidence to back it up,” Emily stated. “Natalya’s body was exhumed this morning and the lab is working on her, trying to do a second autopsy. It will be far from ideal, since she has already been through one and then she spent two months embalmed under the ground, but let’s hope we find anything. Garcia, were you able to find any trace of the missing notes?”

“They’re not online and they were not written or saved on her laptop. The CSI team is supposed to go canvas the house today, isn’t it?” Garcia answered.

“Yes. And, thanks to Spencer, they will be especially attentive to anything with roses, rose petals, or rose engravings. Let’s hope Charlotte has left anything there. JJ, the warrant for us to have access to Charlotte’s will must be signed today. See it is done and talk to Mr. Acharya. Luke, keep shaking every tree from your old contacts and see if any CIs know anything. I will keep everyone posted with news from the Rangers about the woods in Fairfax. Spencer and Tara...”

“Yes?” Tara answered for the both of them. He was still frowning, bothered with the fact that Natalya’s body was so out of any pattern. Not that they had a pattern to work with. Was she personally connected to the unsub?

“Read everything you can about the 12 missing women. Work with the info that Garcia gathered. I want to know if you can trace any connections between them besides the obvious. If our unsub is a serial and he isn’t escalating, with the shortened time between Natalya and Charlotte, it could be months until he strikes again and he has a lot of advantages over us.”

“So, are we going to pursue a line of investigation treating those cases as connected?” Spencer asked.

“You think they aren’t?” Emily asked him back. “I’m not making any definitive statements on this matter yet. Not until we have the new autopsy on Natalya. But it’s a strong possibility we can’t ignore.”

***

The CSI left a mess of Amélia’s place at first, but then the specialized cleaning crew made it spotless after. Ishaan explained to her that she was allowed to keep living in the house and the estate would cover all expenses with taxes and bills while the legal process of the inheritance ran its course. It wasn’t clear if all the remaining Bradfords were going to accept the terms of the will. Matthew, for instance, hadn’t said a word about it so far. He had an even bigger estate than Charlie, especially if one considers that his wife, Rebecca, came from a family who once upon a time owned mines of diamonds in Africa or something.

To make matters worse, the panel still hadn’t got back to Amélia about her report and to tell her if they were going to renew her fellowship at Georgetown. Her father called one afternoon, to her surprise. He and Amélia weren’t estranged, but… He never understood why she stayed in the US after they left and he kept going on and on about how she shouldn’t let _the gringos_ ruin her self-esteem and all that.

“A gente nunca devia ter testado você, Melinha. Isso foi a sua escola que encheu o nosso ouvido com essas bobagens de educação especial para crianças gênio e foi muita pressão, filha,” he would managed to say every time they talked. “Gênio não existe, Amélia. Você tem algumas habilidades diferentes, é verdade, mas você seria completamente inútil em uma aldeia indígena, por exemplo.”

“Obrigada, pai, saber que eu também seria um fracasso em outra sociedade é realmente tranquilizador,” she would remark, bitter.

“Amélia Ferreira! Você acha mesmo que é um fracasso com tudo o que você já fez em vinte e oito anos de vida?! Sabe onde eu tava com a sua idade?” [1]

And then he would tell his sad tale of juggling college, a job, a marriage, and even “helping” her mother take care of her when she was little, because he was a committed father. How _could_ Amélia complain? She hadn’t been a child refugee like him. Her father was alive. She lived in a huge beautiful house. She helped her elderly and sick grandma. She worked in the field she had been preparing for all her life. She had it easy, that was the truth. She had no _real_ trauma to deal with, no _real_ problems, like he and her mother.

It was with her father that Amélia discovered you can love a person and not like them. Nor the person you are when you’re around them. That’s… that’s love, right?

But this time Eduardo had called to ask her for money. Amélia hadn’t told them about Charlie’s will because nothing was certain yet and she didn’t want them to start making plans with the money she wasn’t even sure she would get. But they knew about Charlie’s death. And the fact that she might be without a paycheck starting December. So, Eduardo said, that was why Margarida hadn’t mentioned their monthly bills to her yet. Because she wanted to spare Amélia of that worry. But the facility where vó Doralice lived kept sending them the bills and they had to buy her meds, like every month.

“O mundo não pára porque a gente está triste, filha. A gente precisa continuar indo trabalhar e cumprir as nossas obrigações mesmo chateado. É assim que funciona, você sabe disso. Vovó Ana continuou trabalhando mesmo sem saber se um dia o vovô ia voltar. Ela continuou cuidando de mim mesmo quando ficou claro que ele nunca ia voltar. E agora a gente tem que cuidar da vó Dorinha. Essa é a vida, Amélia, mesmo que a sua mãe goste de fingir que não.” [2]

So Amélia paid their bills and clipped coupons to buy food when the leftovers from Charlie’s wake and Ellie and Ewa’s burst of generosity ended. Not that she would be able to stay in the US for long after they fired her from Georgetown, but she needed to save money to buy a plane ticket, at least. And go back to work on her resumé to look for jobs if she had to go back to Brazil. At least she could live with her parents. Or vó Ana, if she didn’t mind pretending she was catholic and straight.

She was eating the last quiche in the fridge when the doorbell rang. On the other side of her door, a courier stood.

“Amelia Ferreira?” He asked, when she opened the door.

“Yes, this is me.”

“I will need your signature, please.”

When he left, she opened the box. Another box, also made of non-descript cardboard, was inside it. She took it out from the bigger box and a folded document was underneath.

Laura’s delicate cursive was scribbled on the outer fold of the paper.

_I hope you’re happy now._

Amélia opened the box, it contained human ashes. Charlotte.

She cried for the first time that day, alone on her kitchen floor.

Her quiche went cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] "We should have never let you get tested, Melinha. This was your school's fault, they yapped on our ears with these silly ideas of special education for genius children and it was too much pressure, daughter. There's no such thing as a genius, Amélia. You have some different skills, it's true, but you would be totally useless in a Native American village, for instance."  
> "Thanks, dad, knowing that I would be a failure too in a different society is really reassuring."  
> "Amélia Ferreira! Do you really think you're a failure with all that you have done in 28 years of life? Do you know where I was at youre age?"
> 
> [2] "The world doesn't stops because we're sad, daughter. We need to keep going to work and maintain our everyday lives even when we're bummed. That's how it works, you know this already. Grandma Ana kept working even when she had no idea if grandpa would ever come back home. She kept taking care of me even when it was clear that he would never come back. And now we need to take care of grandma Dorinha. That's life, Amélia, even if your mom likes to pretend it isn't."
> 
> "Dorinha" is a nickname for Doralice.


	8. A house made of straw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then I'll huff  
> and I'll puff  
> and I'll blow your house down.

The wind whipped her hair across her face, but she lacked hands to undo her messy bun and tuck in the strands, so she tried to just push it away from her eyes and not let any hairs get caught on her glasses. She decided to push her glasses to the top of her head in order to drink a sip of coffee, so the lenses wouldn’t get all foggy. Usually, she wore contacts when she went to Georgetown, but this morning she woke up to a text from Spencer Reid asking to meet her in front of the Humanities building and she was so agitated she almost left her house without a coat.

He was late. She had a class to teach in twenty minutes. She couldn’t keep waiting for him much longer. She took her old iPhone from her pocket and tried to read the cracked screen, squinting to make the blurred lines work and stretching her arm as far as she could.

“Hey.” She almost let her phone drop to the ground when his voice came way closer than she expected.

She scrambled to put the phone back in her pocket and lowered her glasses, looking at him properly. He had a big tan overcoat and a long wool scarf. October had arrived, bringing the cold to DC. His overgrown hair was all mussed from the weather too and Amélia had to grab her coffee with both hands to not push his bangs away from his eyes.

“Hey. You really blend in with the crowd,” she said back with a little smile. He could be a PhD on his way to class. Or one of her colleagues. They could have been meeting to discuss some Seminar, instead of murder. “What’s up?”

“I… I asked to meet you here to tell you that we’re officially treating Charlotte’s case as part of a serial. You’re not a suspect anymore.”

Amélia blinked a few times. She knew this already. Since last night, when Ishaan called to tell her the news and that she should be in possession of her inheritance in a couple of months or so.

“So you got DNA from Natalya’s exhumation?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

She knew it. But she also didn’t know why he had driven almost two hours from Quantico or wherever he lived to Georgetown to tell her something that could have been said over the phone. Was it for rapport? Amélia drank her coffee to get time to think.

“And how can I help you get this… gentleman?”

Spencer chuckled and averted his eyes.

“You’re still a witness.”

“I witnessed nothing, Reid.”

“Charlotte left clues for you. We still haven’t found her notes and, assuming she wouldn’t take them to her meeting with the unsub…”

“She was smart. A bit arrogant, but smart. She would never do such a thing, unless she knew him and trusted him, like Professor Browne.” She bit her lower lip after saying this out loud. Could her colleague be a murderer? A sleazy son of a bitch, yes. But an actual serial killer?

“He’s not a suspect either.” He was looking intently into her cheek and Amélia instinctively touched it, worried that could be something dirty there. It was clean.

“He’s a creep, tho. You need to admit it.”

He let out a sound that was a mix of laughing and exhaling.

“The CSI team wasn’t able to find anything in your place. The notes weren’t in the storage unit in Charlotte’s name either. She had just a Porsche stored there.”

It was Amélia’s time to laugh nervously. She had no fucking idea that she owned a Porsche now. Charlie never told her about the car.

“We couldn’t get a warrant for her bank accounts. The Swiss National Bank refused to cooperate and even tell us what she had in storage there. They will only allow the heir to access it with her key.”

“My key? I don’t have a key to any bank. My only connection to bank accounts these days is trying to pretend I don’t owe money to mine.”

“It really doesn’t have to look like a key. I wanted to ask you to look back at the gifts Charlotte gave you in the past year and see if something comes up. The key will probably be made of a noble metal, like platinum or gold, and will have very sharp indentations on it, made with laser. It’s probably not big either.”

She frowned, trying to think of anything that fit that bill. Nothing came to mind.

“Since it was a gift for you, it could be rose-shaped?” He insisted.

A flash of light passed Amélia’s eyes.

“I’m not saying that I’m sure of anything, but I think that might be something here, in my office. It doesn’t look elegant or golden, though, and Charlie told me she bought it in a flea market.”

“At this point, I’m trying anything, Amélia.”

“Let’s go, then.”

She took another gulp of her coffee and turned back at him, climbing the stairs of the building. This time she wasn’t running. Her job was still on the line and she wasn’t interested in looking unprofessional there.

Amélia shared the office with three other postdocs from the Sociology and Activism research group. At 7:30am on a Thursday in October, none of them were there yet. Alex Moore was probably teaching class already. Amélia’s class began in fifteen minutes, but this was more important.

It was a cramped up space filled with books, academic journals, newspapers, old notebooks, and their institutionally issued personal computers. Amélia’s small desk was the closest to the only window in the room, because she was the one who had worked there longer and this granted her some small privileges, like being allowed to gaze at the trees outside the window after grading papers for six hours straight.

Amélia went to her pile of half reread books and grabbed “Caliban and the Witch”, by Silvia Federicci. In the middle of it, there was a rusty letter opener Charlotte randomly gifted her in March. It looked almost like a knife and it had a rose-shaped end. Since Amélia barely got any letters, she used it to mark her books. She didn’t touch it, offering it to Spencer in the opened book. He was wearing leather gloves and took it in his hands.

“Would you have a knife?” He asked her, examining the letter opener against the light.

Amélia snorted, opening her purse and getting her switchblade.

“What kind of woman doesn’t have a knife?” She asked back, offering it to him.

He didn’t seem to recognize her quote and raised an eyebrow at her when he got the switchblade from her hand. His gloved fingers touched her naked ones and Amélia recoiled, as if she had been shocked. She pretended to arrange a stack of papers on her desk to get away from him. He probably thought that pop culture was for peasants and had never watched a single comedy show in his life. She shouldn’t be bothered by his presence or his opinion.

Without looking, she heard the blade opening and then the sound of metal scraping metal. He let out a small satisfied sound.

When Amélia turned to look at him again, she saw that the letter opener in his hands had a gash of gold shining under the room’s fluorescent lights.

“There are engravings here. You never noticed it?” He asked, sounding almost disappointed.

Amélia frowned at him, defensively crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“Of course I noticed it, I just never cared. I had no idea Charlotte was playing The DaVinci Code with me and, in the past four years, she gave me  _ a lot _ of weird gifts.”

His face was very earnest when he looked at the letter opener in his hand again. As if he had no idea he could sound condescending when he got “disappointed” with her for not being some sort of detective in relation to her dead best friend. Well, too bad for him. Amélia wasn’t interested in pretending he wasn’t behaving like an idiot just to massage his ego. She didn’t even do it for her friends, why would she do this for this random FBI agent who would disappear from her life once he moved on from this investigation?

Even if she wasn’t a suspect anymore, they weren’t friends. She had to remember this.

“Well, this probably is the key. I can tell my Commanding Officer and we can go to the bank. It’s a short subway ride from here. You’re the heir, we have the key, we should be able to access the contents.”

“I have a class to teach in five minutes. I’ll be in the classroom until noon. If you can’t wait until then, we can meet here again at lunch time and go.” She put her open hand in front of him, silently asking for her letter opener slash mystery key back.

He held it against his chest.

“This is evidence,” he said. “I should catalogate it.”

“Fine. Keep the key. Just remember that you need me at the bank. I’m going to class, I’ll see you at noon then.” She held the door open, signaling for him to leave, but he stood in the middle of the room.

“In the time it would take me to get from here to Quantico and back, it would already be time to meet you again. I, hm, I could call my CO and explain to her that I’ll be doing field work today, and, I don’t know, sit in on your classes?”

Amélia blinked when looking at him, confused.

“You want to sit through ‘Sociology 101’, ‘Colonialism, Sexism, and the Creation of the State’, and ‘Capitalism and Gender’? Why?”

He shrugged.

“I miss college. Also, are you going to waste an opportunity to school me about the evils of capitalism and the police state?”

“ _ Never. _ Come on, Doctor Reid, we’re late to meet a bunch of unmotivated teenagers.”

Amélia let him walk by her and locked the office door, not looking back. Why were her hands kind of shaky? It was probably due to the fact that she hadn’t eaten anything yet and drank a triple espresso from the teacher’s lounge machine. She took a deep breath, adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder, straightened her posture, and walked to class with decisiveness. She was Doctor Ferreira now.

She could hear him talk on the phone with someone named Emily, his boss as far as she understood, and explaining about the key, about her classes, and how he would go to Quantico as soon as he recovered whatever it was that Charlie had kept in the Swiss National Bank.

They got to the small lecture room where Amélia taught most of her classes. It was already filled with freshmen laughing and chatting loudly. Amélia dropped her books on the bureau in front of the class with a loud thud and waited for the noise to dim out before turning to the class. In the first row there were the girls who always had notebooks opened and, once in a while, crowded her after class to keep discussing the week’s reading. Behind them, Amélia could see a crowd of mostly sleepy teenagers who were there just for the credits and couldn’t care less about Weber and Durkheim. And, in the back, close to the door, was Reid. Oh, well, she was paid for this, wasn’t she?

“Good morning, class. Today we’re discussing the notion of a ‘social fact’, by Durkheim,” she waited a moment to speak more. “Who wants to explain what a ‘social fact’ is?”

The rest of the lecture absorbed her completely and she forgot all of her problems outside that room. And the blonde problem inside it. The students even got excited listing social facts and really seemed to have had their minds blown with the idea that individualism was mostly a societal fiction. Amélia supposed that, in the 21st century, most countries in “the Occident'' would find this notion outlandish, but the prevalence of individualism as an ideology was especially strong in the US.

Then they left, and she sat for a moment to drink from her reusable bottle, regretting having skipped breakfast. Reid was gone. Well, he probably got bored by listening to a bunch of obvieties about something he must know by heart and decided to go hang out in the library or the cafeteria. She shouldn’t be disappointed. She wasn’t.

The new students started to come in. They were mostly sophomores. Amélia fished the paper they would be discussing that morning from inside her purse and a student approached her to ask questions about their midterm paper. A group gathered around them to listen. With a polite smile, Amélia explained to them for the fifth time what she was expecting of their essay. When the students went back to their places, she saw that there was a piece of banana bread sitting on her desk. She loved when the cafeteria made it. Amélia raised her head and there he was again, sitting in the same spot by the door with a knowing smile on his lips barely hidden by the hand he innocently rested his head on.

She ate half of it before starting the lecture, wondering if everyone could see the warmth she felt on her face.

The morning ran through her fingers and Amélia felt her heart thumping hard against her chest when he approached her again, at the end of the last class.

“So, uh, thanks… For… For the food.” Why the hell was she stuttering?

“You can buy me lunch in the cafeteria and consider us even, doctor.” There was something boyish in his face, almost shy.

Amélia grabbed the strap of her purse with all her strength, forcing herself to behave like a reasonable adult.

“I… We should get going. I can buy a burrito from the guy near the station. I have a meeting at three and… and you need to go to your job, right?”

“Yeah, no. You’re right. A burrito is good too.” He sounded disappointed.

She strode in front of him, deciding to not dwell on these feelings. They barely talked on the way to the bank. There was a strange energy between them. Something had shifted and Amélia couldn’t know exactly what.

***

The subtle perfume of the Swiss National Bank’s lobby distracted Spencer a bit from the spiral of shame he had been for the past half hour.

When it became clear that Amélia wasn’t the unsub nor would have more information about the murder than possibly granting them access to Charlotte’s bank accounts and maybe her notes, he was taken by a devastating sense of loss.

He had met her four times in two weeks and the prospect of maybe not seeing her again… He could have spoken with her via a phone call, but he wanted to  _ see _ her. Now, he was happy that he did it, because, otherwise, who knows if they would be going together to the bank? The letter opener pressed against him in his breast pocket, sealed inside an evidence bag.

He had gotten way too excited watching her lecture, thrilled by the passion she had in every word she said. Amélia loved teaching so much that her face was flushed most of the time. He brought her food and she smiled. She thanked him. But, when he suggested they should have lunch, she retracted. He was trying to nod at what she had said to him a while ago, about needing to pay kindness with kindness and not wanting to be indebted to him through food.

But she shut him off this time. Maybe he overstepped. Maybe she hadn’t liked that he had stayed during her classes? He needed to call Derek as soon as possible and explain what was going on and see if he could help Spencer make sense of it. He would have to let out the part where she was a witness in an active investigation, probably. Derek wouldn’t like this.

Maybe he should go to a meeting.

“Hello, welcome to the Swiss National Bank, how can I help you today?” There was a receptionist. A young white man with a big and white smile. On his chest, there was a name tag with “Bradley” written in golden letters.

“Hello, I’m Doctor Amélia Ferreira and I inherited an account here. I need to see my manager.”

“Very well, then, I’ll get an account manager. Please, wait on one of our couches. Can I bring you a glass of water or champagne? Perhaps you would rather have a coffee from our espresso machine?”

“No, thank you. I’m… I’m good. Maybe I’ll accept the water if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all, Doctor Ferreira. I’ll be back in a moment. And you, sir, how can I help you?” Bradley turned to Spencer with the same smile on his face.

“I’m with her and I’ll also take a glass of water, if you’d be so kind, please.”

“Not a problem, sir. We, the Swiss National Bank, want our clients to know how deeply they matter. I will be back soon with your waters. Flat or sparkly?”

“Flat.” Spencer and Amélia said at the same time.

“I hope this is what you’ve been looking for,” she said, when they were alone.

He almost jumped on his seat, startled by her statement cutting through the thoughts swirling fast in his mind.

“What… what do you mean?”

“The account. I hope that it’s not another Porsche situation and the investigation can go forward. Because, from what I’ve gathered, you’re all out of suspects and this is your final line of inquiry for the case not to get cold until he strikes again. If anyone realizes that he struck again.”

She was echoing his own worries. Spencer took a deep breath.

“We have a partial profile and things are getting clearer now that we know who his victims are. We won’t give up easily, Amélia.”

She let out a bitter laugh. Spencer turned to look at her. Before he could ask her why was she laughing, a middle aged bald man entered the room.

“Doctor Ferreira, I’m pleased to meet you,” he said, shaking Amélia’s hand. “I’m George Whitman and I’ll be assisting you today.” The man turned at Spencer and offered his hand to him.

“I’m Doctor Spencer Reid, nice to meet you, Mr. Whitman,” he said, taking his hand and shaking it.

With the corner of his eye, he identified an alcohol dispenser on the way in. 

“Let’s go into my office and see how I can be of use today, shall we?”

Before he guided them inside the bank, Spencer took a brief stop at the dispenser and sanitized his hands.

The hallways were elegant and the building seemed way bigger inside than out. The carpet muffled their sounds, but Spencer could see that they were inside what was basically a bunker. Behind a bullet-proof door, Mr. Whitman’s office was richly decorated with generic and tasteful art and a few potted plants.

A big mahogany desk dominated the room, with two chairs on one side and one on the other. Mr. Whitman pulled one of the chairs for Amélia, like a gentleman. Spencer sat beside her and the account manager took the seat in front of them. At the table, in front of Spencer and Amélia, were two crystal glasses with flat water. Spencer took a sip.

“So, Bradley told me you inherited one of our accounts, Doctor Ferreira. Could I please have the key?” He stretched his manicured hand in front of Amélia, who turned to Spencer with an expressive look in her eyes.

He reached inside his breast pocket and put the key in Mr. Whitman’s hand. He squinted his eyes for a brief moment.

“Ah. I see,” Mr. Whitman said, examining the key. He opened a drawer at his bureau, took out a bottle and a cloth, and started to clean the object before Spencer could protest. “I am very sorry for your loss, Doctor Ferreira. Ms. Bradford was a peculiar and fascinating young woman.”

Before their eyes, the rusty letter opener turned into a shiny golden object. The inscriptions on its blade were very clear now.

“You recognize the key?” Amélia asked.

“Oh, yes, Ms. Bradford was very particular about how she wanted her key shaped. She told me it would be a special present for you. I handled the process personally.” He stopped polishing to look at his work, making sure that none of the old and horrible paint was left. “Now this is a silly formality, but I’m obligated by my contract to ask you for the account number.”

“What?” Amélia was shocked. She turned at Spencer, confused.

“She must have told you before she passed, doctor. It’s a ten-digit random sequence.”

“It’s 1890573536,” he said. He hoped he was right. This was paired with another number, this one with sixteen digits, both written on pencil with Charlotte’s handwriting, on a corner of the book about Hollywood stars filled with rose petals in Amélia’s room.

Mr. Whitman smiled and stood up.

“Very well then, if you would be ever so kind as to step inside our secure viewing room, your safe deposit box will arrive directly into your hands as soon as I type the account number and my code in my computer. You will have all the privacy to examine its contents for all the time you need.” He opened another door, to what seemed to be a panic room.

Under its fluorescent lights, the room was furnished with a large leather couch, a small coffee table and a mini fridge. The whole room could have, at most, 30 square feet.

“When you want to come out, just press the intercom and I’ll open the door for you, ok?” He put the key back on Amélia’s hand and closed the door behind them.

She let her head bump the closed door with a thud.

“Are you ok?” Spencer asked.

“I hate tiny spaces,” she muttered, sounding anguished. “I can feel the burrito tossing and turning in my stomach and it’s almost like the walls were closing into me.”

“How can I help you?”

She laughed bitterly again.

“Can you magically produce a window?”

“Do you want to press the intercom? I’m sure we could look at whatever is in this box by Mr. Whitman’s desk.”

“No… No.” She took a deep breath and adjusted her posture again. “Mr. Whitman is right. We need privacy for this. I need privacy for this.”

She turned to the small automatic door on the opposite wall just in time to see it opening and pushing a small vault into the metallic tray. Amélia walked towards it and inserted the key in the odd-shaped lock. The box opened with a soft purr.

Spencer put on a pair of latex gloves before examining its interior.

There were six blue notebooks inside it, each of them tagged with a month on the cover. Spencer took pictures of it all and took them out. Amélia was just standing beside him, looking inside the vault as if it could speak directly to her. Besides the notebooks, there was a small velvet purse with an external hard drive inside it and nothing else.

“Can I… can I look at the journals before you take them?” She asked.

“Sure. Just… just put on gloves, please.” He took an extra pair of latex gloves from his pocket and offered to her.

“I… I can’t,” she muttered, frustrated.

“Oh. Your allergy.” He suddenly remembered this information about her from reading a chat with Charlotte about buying condoms. The memory made his mouth dry. He was a horrible person.

Spencer put the gloves away and reached inside the pocket in his pants where he had put his leather gloves.

“Here, these won’t hurt you.”

“Thank you.”

She gave him a small smile and put them on. The gloves were too big for her small hands, but she made it work. She flipped the journals pages one by one, seated on the couch. After a couple of minutes, she let out a tired sigh.

“They’re just her field journals. Charlie was very meticulous, so you will probably have material for your investigation or whatever.” Amélia took out the gloves and threw them on the desk, burying her head in her hands after. She groaned again.

“Amélia…” Spencer tried to get close to her.

“I’m done. If you want to bag and take everything any time soon, I need to go back to Georgetown.”

“Why are you being rude to me? Have I done anything wrong?” He was getting hurt by her manners.

She laughed again, still not looking at him.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you, I’m probably at the ‘anger’ stage of grief or something. I mean, it’s not outlandish to expect that Charlotte would have the decency to leave me at least a fucking note explaining things to me, right? I feel like a pawn in her game, you know? Just an errand girl for the FBI and a tool to stick it to her parents.” Her voice was breaking by the end of the sentence.

Spencer got closer to her, not knowing how to make her feel better.

“I’m so sorry you’re feeling this way,” he said, sitting beside her.

She sniffed.

“Why are you so nice to me, Spencer?” She turned to look at him then and there was still anger behind her glasses. “Are you like this with every witness you meet or just the ones who  _ really _ hate the FBI?”

“I’m… it’s not…”

She stood up, grabbing her purse, and walked towards the door, not looking at him again.

“Great, I’m glad we had this conversation. If you don’t mind, I really want to go now.”

“I care, Amélia,” he finally said.

“I don’t know of the two of us who is more stupid. You, for saying empty and cheesy things like this, or me, for believing.”

Before Spencer could say anything else, Amélia pressed the intercom and Mr. Whitman opened the door.

  
  


***

She had a horrible night. Tossing and turning all the time after barely being able to fall asleep on her pillow soaked with her angry tears. Due to stubborness, she refused to take her nightly clonazepam. She wanted to feel angry. She wanted to hate Charlotte, Georgetown, the Bradfords, her parents, and Spencer fucking Reid.

_ I care, Amélia _ .

About her? About the case? About the rapport she could give him?

She had a very weird dream in which she was Charlotte and was trying to get out of her coffin, screaming and scratching, buried alive. That, of course, wasn’t what happened. Charlotte had been very much dead when she was cremated, not a doubt in sight.

Amélia was staring at her ceiling then, resisting her impulse to get her phone and text Eleanor in the middle of the night, bothering with her incessant whining. And then…

She heard a thump on the first floor. When Salem stirred on the bed and adjusted himself closer to her, Amélia realized:

There was someone inside her house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been into a fancy bank in my whole life, so my whole reference for the Swiss National Bank comes from movies and, yes, The DaVinci Code. Why pretend I don't have references when I can let you in on the trick with me? *wink wink*
> 
> Next chapter will be the epythome of Hurt/Comfort, my dears, but I promise that the "Comfort" part is going to be worth it.
> 
> Finally, come on, folks, if you're reading the story so far, leave me a comment! I need to build rapport (lol) with you. It can be just "I like the pop culture references" or another random X thing you like, it doesn't have to be a midterm paper, I promise I won't grade you like I do with my students. (I mean, unless, like Spencer, you're into it)


	9. The thing in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, saying these words, this wicked wolf fell upon Little Red Riding Hood, and ate her all up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:  
> This chapter will contain explicit depictions of B&E, threats, physical violence, shock, and trauma. If you want just the comfort aftermath, I strongly recommend to wait for the Chapter 10.  
> If you chose to read it, please remember to drink water and breathe.  
> And don't worry, loves, I don't believe in doing things for shock value.

She reacted before thinking. She put on her glasses and grabbed Salem, throwing him inside the bathroom cabinet, locking it afterwards. The second thing she did was grab her phone from her bedside table and toss it in her flannel PJs breast pocket.

Her body moved by itself, while her mind decided it was a great moment to remember the lyrics to “Acorda, Amor.”

_Acorda amor_

_Eu tive um pesadelo agora_

_Sonhei que tinha gente lá fora_

_Batendo no portão, que aflição [1]_

She ran to the bedroom door and locked it, praying to a god she didn’t even believe in that the old hardwood would be enough to gain her precious minutes. Just to be sure, and deciding that she didn’t care if the intruder knew she was awake, Amélia started pushing her bureau against the door. Luckly, the huge area rug underneath it muffled the sound a bit. It wasn’t the perfect barricade, since she, with her skinny arms, could barely push it, but she needed time. Time with anything.

_Acorda amor_

_Não é mais pesadelo nada_

_Tem gente já no vão da escada_

_Fazendo confusão, que aflição_

It sounded like whoever was downstairs was trashing her place. She could hear the sound of furniture being tossed on the floor and cupboards being opened. What the hell was going on?

She ran to the bathroom and locked the door behind her, already looking around the room to see if she would be able to barricade it too. Everything was nailed to the walls and the ground or was connected by pipes to the walls, like the bathtub. Amélia felt a sudden need to cry, but she pushed it down, remembering her father's words: _Quando a casa cai, o guerrilheiro não arrega. Sobrevive quem tem sorte e sangue frio. A sorte a gente não controla, o sangue frio sim._ [2]

So she calmed her racing thoughts and took the phone from her pocket with firm hands, typing 911 on the screen.

“911, this is Candice, what’s your emergency?” The quick and polite voice came from the other side.

“My name is Amélia Ferreira, e eu estou… and I am at 2901, M Street, DC. And there’s an intruder in my house.” Her voice was a shaky whisper. Cool head. Cool head. Survives the warrior with luck and a cool head.

She got away from the bathroom door and decided to lie in the bathtub. Inside the cabinet, Salem meowled, angry to be locked up. Her hope was that, if he was out of the way, whoever broke into her house wouldn’t feel the need to hurt him.

“Mrs. Herrera, are you safe right now?” Candice asked her.

“I’m locked up inside my bedroom’s suite. I’ve barricaded my bedroom’s door with my work desk, but I don’t know how many people they are or if it will hold up for long.”

“I have sent your request to the nearest precinct. Is there anyone else with you?”

“Just me and my cat. And, you know, whoever broke into my house.” The fact that Amélia was making a stupid joke in that situation made her cringe at herself.

“A patrol officer responded to your request. They should be arriving in seven minutes, ma’am, please, remain on the line in the meantime.”

“Ok.” Amélia stayed in silence, listening to her own shaky breath for a while and the sounds of the person trashing her house while she waited.

She could hear them climbing the stairs. That was probably how the foxes felt, inside their holes on the ground, waiting for the hounds to come.

“They are coming here. I only hear one person. They’re heavy. I think it’s a man.”

_São os homens_

_E eu aqui parado de pijama_

_Eu não gosto de passar vexame_

_Chame, chame, chame o ladrão!_

“I have updated the officers, please, remain calm and on the line. You’re doing really well so far, ma’am.”

She heard him entering another room, throwing things to the ground. By the sound of it, he was in her library.

“No offence, Candice, but you really aren’t the last person I wished heard my voice on this earth. Your job kind of sucks, right? No one calls 911 to share good n...”

“Ameeeelia! Where are you?!” A husky male voice came from the hallway. She could hear him trashing the other rooms. “Come out and play!”

“He… He knows my name,” she whispered on the phone.

“Please, remain calm, ma’am. The police are on their way.”

A loud thud came from her bedroom door. And then another.

“Candice, please ask the police to hurry. He’s testing my bedroom’s door and barricade at this moment and I’m betting on whoever it is that’s kicking it.” Candice probably thought she was insane. But Amélia had this coping mechanism that, in order to keep herself calm, she needed to say things in the most nonplussed way possible, or she would crack.

“I’m updating the officers on your situation, please remain calm and on the line, we are getting through this together, Amelia.”

If she died right now, would her incoming inheritance go to her parents? Or would they be without a daughter and without any means?

“Please, since I can’t call anyone else,” another loud bang. “Can this message register that I want my friend Eleanor to take Salem? He’s my cat.”

_Se eu demorar uns meses convém, às vezes, você sofrer_

_Mas, depois de um ano eu não vindo_

_Ponha a roupa de domingo e pode me esquecer_

There was a loud crack coming from her bedroom.

“He’s here, Candice, he’s in the bedroom.”

“Amelia!” A male voice she had never heard before came from the bedroom. “Amelia, come out from wherever you are! I just want to talk!”

“Can you hear him, Candice?” She whispered even lower.

She heard another crack and her bureau being dragged on the floor.

“Fine!” His voice was closer now; he opened her closet. “Eight, nine, ten! Ready or not, here I come!”

“Candice, tell my mom I love her.”

Sometimes warriors were short on luck, even if they kept their heads cool. Amélia felt her eyes pooling up with water and she let out a small sob.

Like an idiot, she felt guilty for having been so rude to Spencer that morning. That was how he was going to remember her. If he remembered her. As a horrible woman who called him an idiot and a liar.

_Acorda amor_

_Que o bicho é brabo e não sossega_

_Se você corre o bicho pega_

_Se fica não sei não_

_Atenção_

There was another loud thud. This time he was outside the bathroom. The doorframe rattled with the violence. His breathing was really loud now. Amélia’s heartbeat was fast as a hummingbird’s, desperate to escape and having nowhere to run.

“You can run, but you can’t hide, little one.” He kicked the door again. “Just come open this door and my mood will be much better when we talk.”

Another kick. A small hole appeared underneath the lock. His arm appeared there. She decided she didn’t want to look anymore, so she just curled like a little ball, pressing her phone against her chest and crying for all the things she wouldn’t live to see.

Maybe Salem would be ok.

Maybe it would be quick.

The lock clicked and the door was open now.

What a lousy way to die.

***

Spencer woke up with his phone ringing on the bedside table. It was two in the morning. Nothing good happened at two in the morning.

“Hey, Garcia, what’s up?” His voice was still groggy, but he was already sitting up and walking to the chair where he had laid out his clothes for the next day.

“Hey, Spence. We’re calling everyone on the team, but you’re the one closest. There has been a 911 call from Amélia Ferreira’s house.”

He was suddenly completely awake.

“What?” He put the phone on speaker on his dresser and practically kicked off his pajama pants, grabbing the ones he had at hand and dressing in them as fast as he could.

“I have alarms for everything related to the case and I wasn’t really asleep today, waiting to see if my decryption code made any progress on Charlotte’s hard dri…”

“Garcia, focus.” He didn’t mean to snarl at her, but he couldn’t care less about encrypted software at the moment.

“There is a breaking and entering at Doctor Ferreira’s happening at this instant. She called 911 three minutes ago and she’s still on the line with the operator. I called Emily first and then you, because you live like, what? Ten minutes away from her?”

He grabbed his wallet, his keys, and went to get his gun.

“Tell the others I’m on my way.”

“The MPD will probably get there before you.”

“Is that supposed to make me calmer?”

Why had the unsub made a move on Amélia the night after the BAU communicated with the MPD about the existence of a serial killer in their area? It was the unsub, right? Amélia wouldn’t be so unlucky as to have someone try to rob her house three weeks after her best friend died. But, if it was the unsub, _why_ , after six perfect years of silently killing, had he become so sloppy and reckless in the past ten weeks? What was he planning to achieve by attacking her?

“Spencer, try not to think about that, ok?”

“Thanks, Garcia. I’m on my way. I’ll report as soon as I can. Keep me updated.”

“I’ll patch you in to the 911 call.”

“Ok.” He put his bluetooth headphones in his ear and left, with his Converse’s shoelaces still untied.

_“Just me and my cat. And, you know, whoever broke into my house.”_ Amélia’s voice came on the earpiece, shaky and trying to sound nonchalant.

This knocked the wind out of him. He just tucked his shoelaces inside his sneakers so he wouldn’t trip on his feet and fall while he ran down the stairs on the way to his car.

_“They are coming here. I only hear one person. They’re heavy. I think it’s a man.”_

He never drove faster in his life. He ignored red lights and didn’t slow down on turns. On the police radio, he could hear the names and the badge numbers of the officers who took the call. He took his comm and registered his presence to them too. More than anything, he feared those men could be a part of whatever disappeared with the evidence from Natalya’s case and leaked the information that now put Amélia in danger.

_“No offence, Candice, but you really aren’t the last person I wished heard my voice on this earth. Your job kind of sucks, right? No one calls 911 to share good n...”_

She stopped speaking abruptly. On her end of the call, Spencer could hear some vague noises. She was thinking about dying. She thought the 911 operator was the only one to listen to her.

Just five more minutes now and he would be there.

_“He… He knows my name.”_ Her voice was terrified now. No more false intonation of lightness. _“Candice, please ask the police to hurry. He’s testing my bedroom’s door and barricade at this moment and I’m betting on whoever it is that’s kicking it.”_

She had barricaded her room. Spencer tried to not get his hopes up. From the furniture available, she probably used her flimsy work desk to do the job. But she was smart. Just a few more minutes now.

The officers patched in, letting them know they had parked outside her residence and were going in.

_“Please, since I can’t call anyone else, can this message register that I want my friend Eleanor to take Salem? He’s my cat.”_

His knuckles were white from the strength he gripped the wheel with. Almost there. Almost there.

He heard a loud bang through the call.

_“He’s here, Candice, he’s in the bedroom.”_

_“Amelia!”_ A male voice screamed in the back of the call. _“Amelia, come out from wherever you are! I just want to talk!”_

_“Can you hear him, Candice?”_ He could barely hear her frightened voice on the phone.

The noises of destruction became louder.

_“Fine! Eight, nine, ten! Ready or not, here I come!”_

_“Candice, tell my mom I love her.”_

Spencer remembered, in that moment, why the whole concept of “conflict of interest” existed. Because he could only think about killing each and every person in that house if Amélia was hurt when he got there. He had lost Maeve, he couldn’t lose her too. He just _couldn’t_.

He heard Amélia scream on the phone and he still had two blocks to go.

_“No! No! Get away from me! No! Socorro! Help me! Help me!”_

There was a crashing sound, the phone had fallen from her hand. And then sounds of struggle.

_“You bitch!”_ The man snarled before Spencer heard the sound of a body making contact with the floor.

He could hear her struggling to breathe.

And then he heard shots.

_“Dispatch, we have a 10-53 here. I repeat, we have a 10-53.”_

Spencer almost ran his car into the fence when he parked, leaving half of it in the middle of the sidewalk, and got out, running again.

_“Ma’am, ma’am, are you ok?”_

She was coughing.

_“Dispatch, we have a 10-52. Victim is alive, but in need of immediate medical assistance._ ”

The door was wide open when he got inside, climbing the stairs two steps at a time. He turned off his bluetooth and took his badge from his pocket.

“Good night, officers, I’m Supervisory Special Agent Doctor Spencer Reid, I informed you on the radio I was on my way,” he said, as soon as he crossed the threshold of her bedroom.

The door had been completely ripped out from its frame. The room was a mess, but the only thing that Spencer registered was the fact that Amélia was sitting on her bed, wrapped in a blanket, and covered in blood. She was shaking.

The officer closer to her turned to Spencer.

“Good night, SSA Reid, I’m officer Cruz. My partner, officer Miller, is inside the bathroom with the suspect, trying to keep the bastard alive. When we got here, he was on top of her, choking the life out of this girl.”

“Thank you, officer Cruz, but I’ll take my Federal witness away from this room now and make sure she’s somewhere she doesn’t have to see or hear anymore of this until she can leave, alright?”

The cop grunted something about feds and their superiority, but Spencer just didn’t care. He walked towards Amélia, who had her eyes wide open, but not focusing on anything.

“Hey, it’s me.” He got close to her, but she didn’t seem to register it. “Amélia, can you walk for me? We are going to wait this out in Charlotte's room, ok?”

He lightly touched her shoulder and she jumped, letting out a small scared sound.

“Salem.” Was the only word she said, finally looking on Reid’s face. Her voice was hoarse. From screaming, from being strangled. She was without her glasses and there was blood on her face and her hair.

“Where is he, Amélia?” He asked, using a soothing voice.

She grabbed his arm. Her hands were cold and clammy.

“Hey, hey, Amélia.” He crouched close to her. “Amélia, look at me. Can you look at me?” She slowly moved her head towards him. “Breathe with me, please. Breathe with me and try to tell me where Salem is. I’ll get him and take him to Charlotte’s room to be safe with you.”

She took a deep breath. And then another. And then her lips moved without a sound. She seemed to be saying something in Portuguese, not a prayer.

“In the cabinet. I… locked him in the bathroom cabinet.” She spoke very slowly and very softly. “I… He wouldn’t die if…”

Her voice broke. Spencer got her in his arms and decided he would carry her to the other room. He could hear the sounds of the officers talking to the intruder and into their radios. The ambulance would arrive any moment now and Amélia shouldn’t be there to see it.

She was surprisingly light. Or he was still riding the adrenaline rush that took him there. Amélia laced her arms around his neck and buried her bloody face in his shoulder, quietly crying like a small child. This would probably ruin his jacket. He didn’t care.

Charlotte’s room was messy too. Not as trashed as Amélia’s, but messy. What was that man trying to do? He lay her on the bed and walked towards the en suite.

“What are you doing?” She asked him, in a broken voice.

He stopped in his tracks and ran back to her, sitting on the edge of the bed and tilting her face to him. There was an angry gash on her eyebrow; she might need stitches.

“I was getting a towel for you, Amélia. To clean your face.”

“Later. First, Salem.” She was needy like a small child.

“Amélia, you’re bleeding,” he tried to reason.

She started sobbing again, grabbing his shirt and making a mess of him when she rested her face on his chest.

“Please, Spencer, please. He’s so scared. Please. Bring him to me. Please.”

“Where is his carrier bag?”

“In my closet.” She let out a weak sigh. “Can you bring me a change of clothes too? Can I shower here?”

“Are you well enough to shower alone, Amélia? Do you want to call Eleanor, perhaps...”

“ _No!_ No Ellie. No. I don’t want you to get me no one else now. Just Salem.”

“Amélia, you can’t be alone…”

“Are you leaving me?” She asked, with her head still resting against his chest, anger appearing again on her voice.

“No. Just to get Salem. And a change of clothes.”

“Thank you.”

And then she let go of him, flopping on her side onto the bed. Spencer walked to her room again, finally registering that the intruder had turned everything upside down before turning to the bathroom door.

Low intelligence. Disorganized. Impulsive.

He wasn’t the unsub.

***

The comforter was wet under Mia’s face. Like a small child, she wanted to call her mom and weep. At the same time, the woman in her late 20s who lived alone for the past ten years knew she shouldn’t wake Margarida up in the middle of the night with horrible news she couldn’t do a thing about.

She was safe now. The man was laying down on her bathroom’s floor, rendered harmless for now. Spencer was there.

Spencer was there.

The comforter was wet and her head felt light. She touched the gash on her left eyebrow, where her glasses had broken against her face, and winced. It was bleeding a lot. She still felt no pain, due to the adrenaline and the shock, but she knew it would hurt like hell soon. Spencer was right, she should press a towel against that cut.

Mia got up very slowly, her bones felt like jelly, and walked to Charlie’s bathroom, supporting herself on the walls. The big mirror over the sink showed her the blurry image of a woman who seemed to be wearing a cheap “Carrie” Halloween costume.

When the officers shot the man, he coughed blood on her face over the blood that was already flowing out of her own cut. He exerted even more pressure on her neck before collapsing, as if he wanted to make sure he would break her trachea, even if it was the last thing he did in his life. His blood pooled on the floor when the officers turned him to check for vitals and reanimate him and, for a moment, Mia could only lie there, wondering if that was what being _lucky_ felt like.

She was alive. She was alive. She was alive.

The dark thick blood trickling down her temple and getting caught in her lashes was the proof. She was alive.

She turned the faucet on and splashed the icy cold water on her face. The white porcelain turned pink. Under the water, Amélia could see that she had broken a nail when she scratched the man’s eyes.

Foxes bite the neck of the hounds who hunt them.

She threw more water, this time on her hair, feeling her pajamas getting soaked and not caring one bit. She was alive.

Foxes bite, scratch, and snarl.

There were purple marks rising on her neck. Speaking would be hard for the next week or so. She drank water from the faucet like an animal.

Alive. Alive. Alive. Alive. Alive. Alive. Alive.

“Amélia, what are you doing?” Spencer showed up in focus behind her in the mirror, getting blurrier with each step he took closer.

He opened the cabinet and grabbed a white towel, immediately wrapping it around her head.

“You are all wet, you will get sick like this.”

She felt drunk. Alive. Reckless.

He was drying her, close, so close she could feel the heat from his body. His grey coat and blue shirt had a huge dark stain going from his collar and shoulder to the middle of his chest. Amélia traced the pattern with her fingers.

She had branded him.

His hands had gone still in her hair and she stopped staring at his chest to look up. Not that she could see his expression with him standing so close, but this was the polite this to do, right? He was serious, this she could see.

“I brought you Salem and a change of clothes.” His voice was so soft when his hands moved from her hair to press against her open wound. Amélia gasped. “Does it hurt?”

It wasn’t hurting until then. She wanted to ask him to hold her, to let her melt and disappear in his arms, in a safe place where nothing would ever hurt anymore. Instead, she answered his question.

“Yes, a little bit.” Speaking hurt her too now. The adrenaline was leaving her. “Can you help me go back to the bed? You…” she swallowed, trying to make her voice not fail. “You were right, I’m in no shape to take a shower now.”

“Sure. Keep pressing the towel against your forehead, ok? The ambulance has parked on the street already and soon someone will be here to give you stitches.”

The room was lit from Charlie’s bedside lamp ― which Spencer must have lit ― the bathroom, and the hallway. Salem’s carrier bag was on the comforter. He let out an indignant meowl when Amélia got close to him.

Spencer sat Amélia on the bed and, still crouching in front of her, checked the half-opened door.

“I will wait outside while you change your shirt, ok? It’s too cold to be wearing something so wet.”

“I can’t shout for you to come back.” She whispered and every word felt like a scratch on her throat. “Stay here, just turn your back to me and it will be ok.”

“Amélia, that’s not…” He started to argue with her.

Mia rested a hand over the stain on his shirt, her fingers brushing over his heart.

“Stay.” She meant to sound commanding, but, instead, it was needy.

It worked, however. He got up, went to the door and closed it, staying still with his head against the wood in a mirror of how Amélia had been at the bank, a little more than twelve hours ago.

Amélia let go of the towel on her face, immediately feeling the blood trickling down again, and started to unbutton her flannel shirt with shaky hands. Then she stripped it off and her breasts were naked against the cold air.

There was a part of her, the crazy part of her, who wanted to call him already. To make him see her.

Instead, she grabbed the sweatshirt with the NYU logo he had left carefully folded beside her and dressed in it.

It was an oddly intimate moment that they could never tell anyone else. And, yet, there wasn’t really anything going on.

***

While the paramedic applied the butterfly bandages on Amélia’s cut, Spencer excused himself to the hallway to call Emily. He shared with her his point of view on the situation and the fact that, while this was probably connected to their case, the John Doe riding in the ambulance to the hospital wasn’t their unsub. He could, however, be an accomplice or an apprentice, considering how he kept strangling Amélia while being shot, as if he had something to prove.

The possibility of this being the work of two unsubs instead of one started to make a lot more sense in his head. One of them was the dominant, probably older, definitely more powerful, and it was he who called the shots. The other, the man who attacked Amélia, was the hot headed submissive. It was a matter of figuring out if he trashed Amélia’s house because he was in fact looking for something or if it was all just to humiliate her and stage a robbery. He underestimated her, though.

“Be careful, agent, your kitty has claws,” said officer Miller while he drank water sitting on a clean corner of the bathroom floor, after handing the CPR task to officer Cruz.

“What?” Spencer had no trouble putting Salem inside the carrier bag and he was holding the bag with the cat against his chest, walking back to the bedroom and wondering if he should go back inside to get some of Amélia’s toiletries or wait for them to leave.

“Your… _federal witness_. She almost gouged our fellow’s eye out and she scratched and bit his hands and arms like nobody’s business before he could get a good grip of her neck.” He took one more sip before speaking. “So, I know pretty well what it’s like to be wrapped up around some pretty thing’s little finger, but beware: kitty has claws.”

Spencer made his best arrogant Federal Agent expression when he stared Officer Miller down.

“I do not appreciate your tone nor the implications you’re making, Officer. Should I report them to your Captain?”

This made the man straighten his back and his face.

“There’s nothing to report, sir.”

“Good. I think you should focus more on keeping your suspect alive and less on how the Bureau conducts our investigations.”

With that, Spencer grabbed what he could from Amélia’s closet, trying not to worry too much at that moment about just how transparent that whole situation had made him.

He was very self-aware, though, when talking to Emily on the phone.

_“Alvez is at the hospital already, he will take the first shift with the suspect and the cops first depositions_ ,” she told him.

“So you agree that there’s a leak?” He asked.

_“Well, we don’t know it yet. We don’t even know if this man has anything to do with our case or if this is specifically about Doctor Ferreira, but it’s a strong possibility. His DNA will tell us if he is our unsub. Can you see that Doctor Ferreira goes to a safe place for the night? Tomorrow, we will evaluate together if she needs protective custody for an extended period of time or if this was an isolated event._ ”

“I… sure. Do you want me to stay with her for the night?” His throat was tight. Keeping an unbothered attitude was one of the most difficult things he ever did.

Emily stayed in silence for a moment.

_“Yeah, sure. We don’t know what’s going on and I only trust our team. Too many lives were lost because the locals didn’t take the disappearances and Charlotte’s pleas seriously. I could never forgive myself if we let this happen to her too.”_

“Sure. You’re right. I fully agree with you. I’ll help her pack her things and go now. We’ll talk in the morning.”

_“Spencer?”_ Emily’s voice was hesitant.

“Yes?”

_“She was your witness. It was you who she bonded with, primarily. I know that coming close to losing someone in a situation like this can really shake us up. So, as your CO, I’m telling you to call your sponsor and go to a meeting tomorrow, ok? Even before coming to work.”_

“Thanks, Em. Don’t worry, I’m in control. I will go to the meeting tomorrow anyway. Talk to you tomorrow.”

_“You too. Bye.”_

When Spencer went back to Charlotte’s old room, Amélia was sitting alone on the bed, with two butterfly bandages on her eyebrow.

“Hey,” he said, more for the lack of knowledge of anything else that could be said.

She gave him a tight, but warm, smile.

“Hey.” Her voice was hoarse and her neck had a myriad of bruises that would probably be black in the morning. Yeah, going to a meeting would be a great idea.

“I will help you pack your things and I’ll take you somewhere safe. There are officers downstairs waiting for us to leave so they can seal the house.”

“How long?” She asked.

“We can take all the time you need to pack. I’ll go first in the room and close the bathroom’s door so you don’t have to… be there again.”

“No. I mean,” she stopped to swallow. “How long before I can come back?”

He was never a person who liked physical affection. He was afraid of other people’s germs and their clinginess. But there was some quality in Amélia’s vulnerability that made it very hard for him to stay two feet away and not touch her all the time. He chose to chew on his inner cheek, instead.

“I think… I think it’s a good safe measure to pack for a week? Hopefully, it will be less and you will be able to come back as soon as CSI is done processing the place. Of course, if you forget anything, you can just say and people will bring it to you.”

She agreed with her head and then spent a moment staring at her hands.

“Can I… can I tell you what I need from the bathroom and you get it for me?”

“Yeah, no problem. Do you already have a list?”

She nodded again.

“I’m sorry.” She said it in such a small voice that Spencer barely registered it.

He blinked a few times, trying to process.

“For what?”

Amélia let out a deep sigh and shrugged.

“This is not…” She began. And then stopped. She took another deep breath, straightened her back and looked at him with that tight smile on her lips. “Let’s pack, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Although this song is about having someone breaking into your house, it's the police who is coming to kidnap an activist. At first, OP is desperate, asking to his wife to pack things to run, then the police gets him and he makes peace with his fate, asking her to forget him if he doesn't comes back after a year. I won't translate it all here because it would be too long. If anyone is interested in a play by play, ask in the comments and I'll put it there (is this me trying to convince you to leave comments? yes)
> 
> [2] When the chips are down, the freedom fighter/warrior doesn't gives up. Survives the ones who have luck and keep their heads cool. Luck we can't control, but our heads we do.


	10. Aurora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There she lay, so beautiful that he could not turn his eyes away.”

Amélia rested her head on the cold window of Spencer’s car while he drove away from her house. She hadn’t asked where he was taking her. He hadn’t said.

Eleanor would call her stupid when she knew. If she knew.

Truth be told, it would take a while before Amélia learned how to care about those things again.

_ You call “self-preservation” “those things”? _ A voice in her head, that sounded a lot like her therapist’s, asked.

Fuck. She would have to tell Dr. Beatrice about this. And Dr. Mead. And her mother. Her father. Eleanor. Ewa. Professor Cohen, her supervisor on the program. Ugh. This was “her story” now. She would have to give a deposition about this to the cops. And the feds. And, if the fucker survived, repeat it in front of a jury, perhaps.

She wanted to hang her head between her shoulders and hide under some covers.

She worked with victims for so long and there she was now, once more, a victim. A pathetic miserable victim who was a burden to the people around her. Who would have crying fits and anger bursts. She didn’t hate other victims, but she hated being one.

And a lucky one, to make matters worse. She could already hear her father’s voice on the phone, saying she didn’t have it so bad. She was in one piece. She was alive. She would be rich in a few months. Growing up feeling lonely and misunderstood, Amélia often wondered  _ what _ would make it enough for him to validate her pain.

Being locked in a bright windowless room for hours on end by a federal agent surely didn’t. Especially because he had the heart attack, so he had been more victimized than her. By the violence that happened to her.

Way sooner than she was expecting, Spencer pulled into an underground garage and parked. She got out and took Salem and her small purse and let him get her suitcase and laptop bag. The building was very nondescript. Seemed like a good place for the FBI to have a safe house.

Or for him to kidnap and kill her, whatever. With the way things were developing that day, Amélia would be very much not surprised if he was the guy who killed Charlotte.

_ Amy, his DNA is registered in a Federal database. He couldn’t have killed me. _

Oh, yes, the hallucination with Charlotte’s voice was right. Well, one less thing to worry about.

When Amélia paid attention to things again, Spencer had opened a door to a small apartment. The walls were a horrible shade of green and the living room was a mess of books, newspapers, and notebooks that couldn’t be contained on the few shelves on the walls. An old vinyl couch occupied a part of the floor, placed facing an equally old armchair. There were random framed illustrations on the walls and a few sparse pictures on the shelves, that Amélia couldn’t see properly in the dark and wearing her spare glasses.

He turned on the lights.

She followed him inside, looking around. That mess was one newspaper pile away from appearing in an episode of Hoarders. It wasn’t a hotel. It didn’t look like a safehouse.

He locked five different bolts behind her while she stood there, taking the whole situation in. There was a small kitchen in one corner and a bedroom on the opposite wall. The opened sliding door allowed her to see the silhouette of an old double bed made of iron or hardwood. Right beside the door to the bedroom, there was an old record player in a small bookshelf, with what seemed to be like several vinyl records and CDs.

“I know it’s far from ideal…” He was in front of her now, stopping her reverie. “It’s just very late and I couldn’t think of another place where you could be safe and off the map. You can have the bedroom, I’ll just get a pillow and some sheets for the couch. In the morning I’ll talk to my teammates and take you to a better location.”

She adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder, glad that the ibuprofen the paramedic gave her was already kicking in, and agreed with a nod.

“If you don’t want to be here a minute more, just say the word and I’ll call and ask for one of our available safehouses.” She looked back at his face. He was being weird since he came back from his phone call, standing far away like she was contagious or something. Now he was very nervous.

Before saying anything, Amélia put Salem’s carrier bag on the floor and opened the small door for him.

“I just hope you don’t mind having cat hairs all over your place.”

“Ah. No. No. Salem is… he’s neat, right? He won’t destroy anything?’

“Spencer, he’s a cat. Answering your question, he won’t ruin your things on purpose and all but…” In the middle of Amélia’s sentence, Salem ran out of the bag and hid under the couch. “He’s really stressed out and scared. If you’re regretting your idea of bringing us here…”

“No.” His voice was firm above her head. Amélia was still crouching. Getting up suddenly seemed like a lot of work. “No, you’re both welcome here. I’ll get the things to make my bed and, if you want, the bathroom is… Well, it's the only other door.”

She considered getting up one more time. Her legs weren’t really cooperating.

“Hm. That will sound kind of stupid…”

“What?” He was midway to the bedroom already.

“Nothing.”

It was just  _ getting up _ . How hard could it be? Two more breaths, a big push and she was on her own feet again. The world spinned around her.

Oh, fuck.

She took two steps back and leaned on the closed door, hoping the world would get back to normal soon.

“Amélia? You’re really pale.” He was already back with a pillow and some sheets on his arms, which he threw carelessly on the couch to get close to her again. “Hey, hey. What’s going on?”

He still wasn’t touching her.

“Nothing,” she grumbled. “Just… stupid body. Like getting up is hard.”

“No more putting on a brave face, ok? Just ask for help and I’ll help you.”

Amélia hid her face behind her hands and groaned loudly. Her eyebrow still throbbed and her throat felt like it had been scratched by a cat from the inside. She wanted to cry. She wanted to laugh. She wanted…

“Fine. Fine. Help me get to the bathroom, please. I need to shower. I feel disgusting.”

“Sure. You can sit on the couch and I’ll put your suitcase beside you so you can get everything you need before going into the shower.”

“Ah, yes. Yes. Thank you.”

It was awkward, to say the least. She had gone from hostile witness to actively helping the FBI to… that. Showering was a mess. The water was faintly pink on the floor around Amélia’s feet and being naked and wet made the whole “refusing to cry” thing impossible. Luckily, she was experienced in showering while weeping uncontrollably.

The fact that she was only alive because she refused to take her meds that night suddenly hit her and caused a whole new wave of sobs.

At least, she thought to herself when she wrapped herself in the fluffy towel she had brought with her, at least she wasn’t disgustingly dirty anymore.

When she left the tiny bathroom, after blow drying her hair with minimal effort, she saw that Spencer was pouring hot water into two mugs on his counter. It smelled like chamomile.

He raised his eyes to look at her with a shy smile on his lips.

“I thought it could help…”

Amélia put her things inside her suitcase and slowly walked towards him.

“You met me at a very strange time in my life,” she said, sitting on one of the high chairs and grabbing a mug with a TARDIS drawn on it.

The other had the USS Enterprise. She liked his taste in sci-fi. Even though he couldn’t get references from any pop culture or romance novels.

“Fight Club, right?” He asked, surprising her.

She chuckled, blowing the steam from the hot tea.

“I should have guessed that you would know that one.”

“And why is that?” She raised her head to look at him. He had a half-smile and a raised eyebrow.

“Well, you are a man. A very unconventional one, but still a man. And Fight Club is  _ very _ appealing to your demographic.”

“Oh yeah? And why do you know it, then?”

Amélia took a sip of the tea. It was good.

“I watch anything.” She drank a bit more. “Also, Fight Club is a great piece to Gender Studies.”

Spencer tried to suppress a yawn and failed, blinking a lot afterwards. This made Mia yawn too.

“It’s late. We can discuss Gender Theory at another time,” he said, softly.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll take the mug with me, then.”

“Sure.”

***

He sat up in his bed, suddenly awake to the sound of his mother crying. Spencer pushed his covers to the side, turned on the bedside lamp, and put on his slippers. She sounded really upset.

He wandered around infinite hallways in a house way bigger than he remembered his childhood home being, searching for the sound. There was a lump in his throat and he hugged his teddy against his chest, trying to call for his mom, but no sound came out.

Just the wailing, echoing somewhere he couldn’t reach.

Then he reached out his arms and pushed a big hardwood door. On the other side, Maeve waited for him, locked in the embrace of her stalker.

He knew what would come next. What would always come next.

_ “No! No! Get away from me! Socorro! Socorro!” _

The shots were fired and Maeve’s gentle face exploded in front of his childish eyes. When Spencer turned to the shooter, Amélia, all bloody, was there instead and held it against her temple.

_ “Are you leaving me?” _ She asked, before pulling the trigger.

Spencer woke up on his couch, sweaty and breathing quickly. Through the window, he could see that the world was still dark. How long had he been able to sleep?

There was someone weeping. Amélia.

He got up, dizzy, worried, still haunted by the nightmare, and opened the door to his bedroom. She was still asleep, crying and speaking in a mixture of Portuguese and English. He got closer to her, so close that he could see the sweat on her forehead and the tears on her cheeks.

“No, no, no, no, no, no,” she repeated over and over. “Sozinha. Tão sozinha.” [1]

He sat on the edge of the bed and gently touched her shoulder.

“Amélia, Amélia,” he called. “Amélia, it’s just a bad dream. You’re safe now. Amélia.”

She opened her eyes, scared, and they roamed around the room before fixating on him.

“I’m here. You’re safe,” he said again and she exhaled, relieved.

To his utmost surprise, she laced her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, her agitated breaths coming in deep rasps.

“Don’t leave me,” she begged.

Spencer should have pushed her away. He shouldn’t have gone into the bedroom or sat on the bed. They should be in a safe house. He should make no promises to a victim. She was traumatized. She was scared. She was projecting. It was a classic case of transference.

He held her.

Spencer let his fingers trail her spine and memorize the shape of the muscles on her back. A part of him knew already that this was goodbye.

He couldn’t keep seeing her. He was abusing his power to live a one-sided stupid fantasy.

Her breathing got even and her grip on his pj shirt relaxed a bit, so Spencer tried to lay her back and tuck her in. This made Amélia open her eyes again.

“No,” she whispered. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, before he could think better.

She kicked the covers to the side and pulled him onto the bed. As if they had done this many times before, Amélia crawled over him, resting her head on his chest, and, quickly, she was asleep again.

***

Amélia woke up in the morning feeling like a stampede of bulls had gone over her. There wasn’t a single place in her body that didn’t hurt. She was lying over someone who wore an FBI sweatshirt to bed.

Spencer.

She remembered, then, the nightmare and him comforting her until she was asleep again.

His heart was beating fast under her ear and he was suddenly very tense. Amélia looked up. He was awake too. His face and chin were looking rough with his morning stubble and his dark-blonde hair was all mussled. Amélia swallowed.

“Morning,” she whispered. Her throat hurt.

His face was flushed when he brushed a wild curl out of her face.

“Morning,” he said back, as low as her. “How are you feeling?”

Amélia considered lying.

“Like crap.” She opted for the truth. “And you?”

He suppressed a yawn.

“Still tired.” He eyed the alarm clock on his bedside table. “It’s almost seven already. I need to take you to the hospital; you need to be formally looked at by a forensic medical examiner.”

“Oh.” Reality cracked their soft intimacy. Still, Amélia refused to move. “I…”

The words died in her throat and she let her head fall on his chest again. She wanted to bite him. Mark him like she did with his clothes. His fingers started playing with her hair.

“Also, I need to call Central and find a viable safe house for you. We should take all of your things with us to the hospital. Do you think your friends could meet us there and take Salem?”

This made her almost cry again.

“Why can’t we be together?”

Spencer swallowed under her.

“You will have a full day today. Also, it will be easier to find a safe house for you that doesn’t have to be safe for cats. It won’t be for long, you will be with him again soon.”

“And you?” She raised her head to look at him in the eyes, even though she couldn’t see him clearly.

“Me?”

“Will you stay?”

There was a long beat of silence in which Amélia knew she would be disappointed before he spoke.

“I can’t stay all the time, Amélia. My team will take turns in taking care of you.”

She wanted to bite him. Make him hurt. Make him hers. Instead, she used her anger to get up out of the bed and walk to the bathroom without saying anything else.

***

“What were you thinking?!” Emily was beyond exasperated when Spencer told her the events that had transpired during the prior night. “God damn it, Reid. This was so incredibly unprofessional! I… You didn’t pull things like that even when you were a rookie. How could you think it was a good idea to take a victim of attempted murder and key-witness in a federal investigation to your one-bedroom bachelor apartment?!” She paced in circles behind her desk, her long fingered hands waving in big gestures punctuating her words. “What if she sues you and the department for harassment?!”

“She… she won’t…” He tried to counter-argue, but Emily cut him off.

He was usually professional. Although Spencer had a chronic problem of over-empathizing with some victims and unsubs, he had never crossed a serious line like this for one of them before. She was worried. And disappointed.

“You have no idea what she will or won’t do. She’s not your friend, Spencer, she’s a  _ victim _ . And you should be professionally keeping her safe, not inviting her to slumber parties!” She stopped walking and ran a hand over her brow, letting out a deep sigh. “I should report you to IA.”

“Emily…”

“Don’t. Don’t ‘Emily’ me. I  _ won’t _ report you because I know you well enough to know that you did not make any kind of improper advances on our victim.” She stared him down, very seriously. “I will have to talk to her. If she wants to make a complaint, I won’t try to dissuade her, Spencer.”

“Absolutely. You’re correct.”

“Did you go to your meeting today like I told you to?”

He blinked a lot. Emily already knew his answer.

“Go now, Spencer. There’s one at noon in the church two blocks away. Take a long lunch. You need it,” she said, tired.

“Thank you, Emily.”

“Spencer, one more thing. I’m not taking you off the case for now, but you’re not to be alone with or seek out Doctor Ferreira anymore, do you hear me?”

His mouth was a thin line.

“Yes.”

“This is a direct order. If you disrespect it, I will not only take you off the case, I will suspend you without pay.”

“I understand.”

“Good. You can go now. I will see you later in the briefing room with the rest of the team.”

When Spencer left the room, Emily buzzed the intern asking him to bring Doctor Ferreira to her office.

She was exhausted. This whole thing had DC holding its breath for weeks and the news reports had been relentless on the FBI for not having made any arrests yet. Emily had dodged calls from the higher-ups all day who were pressuring her to make a statement saying they had a suspect in custody.

The guy had been in surgery until the early hours of the morning and the doctors opted to keep him in a medically induced coma, at least for the moment. His right lung was severely compromised from the two bullets Officer Miller put in his chest. The FBI was guarding his room, as the possibility of the MPD having a mole connected to him was yet to be ruled out.

Garcia had located the prints of the man who attacked Amélia in the Army’s database. Corporal Josh Marino served two tours in Iraq between 2006 and 2009 before being discharged for psychiatric reasons. In his file, there was a complaint from one of his subordinates, Private Kate Granger, who claimed he sexually assaulted and tried to strangle her. She later dropped the complaint. It was after another subordinate reported him for brutally torturing and killing a civilian that Corporal Marino had a psych evaluation, which considered him unfit for service. His civilian life was filled with several ex-girlfriends making complaints about him to the MPD and immediately dropping them. Marino worked for a while for a security firm, but, since February of 2015, he was unemployed. Three months before, however, his bank account started receiving weekly cash deposits of $2,000. Garcia pulled the footage of the ATMs used for these deposits and all pictures were of Marino himself.

The lab wouldn’t have the results of his DNA until the next day, which was a Saturday. Charlotte’s hard drive had barely budged with Garcia’s decryption attempts so far. So it was all up in the air whether he was the man who killed Natalya and Charlotte or not. Spencer’s theory about them made a lot of sense, when looking at Marino’s file. However, he was in Baghdad when the disappearances started in DC. So either the Master had worked alone before or he had another pupil.

Her door opened. Doctor Amélia Ferreira was a 5 feet and 6 inch tall woman, who probably weighed about 120lbs. The fact she was able to injure Corporal Marino counting just on her teeth and nails was remarkable. She stood in front of Emily, her back very straight and her eyes shining in defiance.

“Good morning, Agent Prentiss, nice to meet you.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, spoken with a clear and melodious accent that echoed her childhood in Rio and her teenage years in California. That morning, Doctor Ferreira wore a forest-green turtleneck sweater and skinny jeans.

Her curly hair was in a high ponytail and there were fresh bandages on her left eyebrow, behind her round glasses.

They shook hands briefly.

“Good morning, Doctor. It’s nice to meet you too. Please, sit,” she pointed to the chair in front of her.

“I was told you wanted to see me in private,” Doctor Ferreira said, after sitting.

“Yes, I thought it was for the best.”

“Without my lawyer?”

“If you want to call for your lawyer, be my guest, but I want to talk to you about private matters you may not have disclosed to Ms. Adeoye.”

She raised her right eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Fine. But I reserve my right to call for my lawyer if I see it fit.”

“You’re not being accused of anything, Doctor Ferreira. You must rest assured of this.” Emily intentionally turned her palms up when talking to her, to convey trustworthiness. “Actually, I asked you to come here to ask how you are feeling and assess if you would like to report anything to me.”

“Yes. I would,” her dark brown eyes burned when staring at Emily, even if her voice was very soft. “A man I’ve never seen before broke into my house and tried to murder me.”

“Yes, I’m aware. My team will interview you as soon as we are done here. But there’s nothing else you would like to disclose now, in private?”

“I don’t think I understand your question, Agent Prentiss.”

Emily cleared her throat, carefully thinking about how to phrase her next sentence.

“You should have gone to a safe house last night. Doctor Reid’s actions were not compliant with the Bureau’s official policy and I would like to make it clear that, if you felt threatened or coerced into anything at any point last night, you can disclose it to me and I will see that the appropriate measures are taken.”

To Emily’s surprise, Doctor Ferreira scoffed aggressively.

“Threatened? By Doctor Reid?” She scoffed again. And then she took a deep breath and straightened her face. “No. I do not wish to report anything about Doctor Reid’s conduct besides the fact that he’s the only Law Enforcement Agent I’ve ever trusted in my whole life.” 

“Can you describe to me what happened between the time Doctor Reid took you from your house this morning and now?”

“No.”

“You can’t or won’t?”

“I am getting up now and going back to the bullpen to wait for someone to take my deposition about the thing that I  _ want _ to report to the FBI.” When she got up, she pulled the collar of her sweater down, revealing a myriad of black and purple bruises on her neck shaped like a huge man’s hands. “The fact that a man tried to murder me last night. Is that a good enough statement for you, Agent?”

Emily blinked for a moment. Tara wasn’t kidding when she said that Doctor Ferreira was hostile to Law Enforcement. If they needed her cooperation, this would be harder to get with Reid being pulled away from her. But that was what needed to be done, to protect the integrity of the investigation. And her friend’s health. He was too close to her, too infatuated.

“Very well then. Doctor Lewis and Agent Alves will take your deposition downstairs. Thank you for your time, Doctor Ferreira, and I’m sorry that you were attacked.”

Doctor Ferreira narrowed her eyes at Emily.

“No offense to Doctor Lewis and Agent Alves, but where will Doctor Reid be while I give my deposition? He saw the aftermath, I think I would feel more comfortable talking to him.”

Oh. So she was encouraging whatever that was.

“Doctor Reid is not available at the moment, Doctor Ferreira.”

“I can come back when he is,” she insisted.

Emily pursed her lips. Doctor Amélia Ferreira was stubborn. But so was SSA Emily Prentiss.

“He won’t be dealing with you in the course of this investigation anymore, Doctor Ferreira. That’s what’s best.”

Her jaw worked and her nostrils flared. She buried her nails into the back of the chair she had just been sitting in. Now Emily could see the feral woman Officers Cruz and Miller described to her at the hospital. For a moment, it seemed like she would say something. But then she took a deep breath and her face was blank again.

“Good to know. Good day to you then, Agent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Alone. So alone.
> 
> Author's Notes: sometimes, I surprise myself with the fact that I'm taking the "slow burn" tag so seriously


	11. Once upon a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know you!  
> I walked with you once upon a dream  
> I know you  
> The gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will mostly be _very_ soft.  
> However, there's mention of Spencer having had sex under pressure of his former partners in the scene where he takes a shower. The scene begins at "A part of him didn’t want to" and ends in "what she was signing up for". If this triggers you, I reccommend skipping or reading it with care.  
> As usual, remember you matter and drink water <3

For a split second, Spencer thought he was delirious.

The NA meeting had left him feeling like he was treading a dangerous path for keeping so many secrets, but, at the same time, made him question _why_ he was never allowed to form normal bonds with people. He was grieving the loss of the fragile bond he had with Amélia and the rest of the work day had been exhausting and stressful. They were going in circles, working with speculation about the profile beyond a few obvious things:

The unsub was a cisgender man. He was likely straight and white. He was probably in his late thirties to his mid-forties, due to the physical strength needed to torture Natalya and Charlotte for long hours. He had money. A lot of it. And possibly an equal amount of power. He had connections to the military, if Marino was indeed his apprentice.

Garcia was scouring through everything possible in Marino’s life to see who his mysterious Master could be, but, so far, things appeared fruitless.

He was tired. He wanted to sleep the whole weekend, if that was possible.

And now, he seemed to be delirious.

Because his brain was insisting that, under the flickering fluorescent light of his floor’s hallway, Amélia was seated, surrounded by her things, resting her head against his door.

“You memorized where I live?” He asked her, when the hallucination didn’t go away.

She got up, patting her pants to take off the dirt from the floor.

“Are you really surprised by this?” She asked him back.

“You shouldn’t be here. I have direct orders to not see you anymore.” He swallowed. 

She was still dressed in the same clothes from when they left his place that morning, which meant that she probably never met the agents who should take her to the safe house. And now Amélia was there, acting as if she had the right to be offended.

She had; he knew this.

“If you want me to go, I’ll go.”

“Go, Amélia.”

“I just need to talk to you first.” Her voice was so low, so hoarse, and her face was pleading. She looked like she was about to cry.

He focused on unlocking his door to gain time to think. 

“Fine. Then you will call the agents responsible for taking you to the safe house and arrange for them to pick you up, and that’s it.” He allowed her to enter, wondering if he really had the strength to do this.

She stood in the same spot as she had in the early hours of that morning, taking everything in, just breathing.

“The idea of not seeing you again hurts me.”

“Amélia… This… You’re fragile and I shouldn’t, we shouldn’t…” He couldn’t even look at her, so he focused on a weird stain he could never manage to scrub off his kitchen counter.

“I’m not stupid, you know. I’ve studied psychological transference too. I’ve talked about this to my therapist in the past weeks, this… This connection I feel to you. And, after this morning, I’m sure that you feel it too.”

“It doesn’t matter what I feel…” He said, weakly.

“No, but see, to me, that’s all that matters.” She was close to him now. Spencer could feel her breath against his nape when she spoke. “If you say that it was all a misunderstanding, that you, I don’t know, just… Just felt sorry for me today and I’m delirious, imagining things in my head, I’ll go out of that door and you will never see me again.”

This was one of the infinite moments in his life that Spencer was sorry for being so bad at lying.

“But I have feelings for you. And, because we couldn’t meet like normal people and have a normal development of things, I have to do this whole dramatic gesture here and now because I feel like this is _the one thing_ I’m still in control of in my life.”

He turned to look at her, surprised.

“You… You don’t have feelings for me,” he muttered, not wanting to believe in this. “It’s just…”

“No, I do. I was legitimately thinking about ripping your clothes off when you interviewed me the first time, at the BAU, before I had the migraine.” Amélia said that sentence like it was nothing. Just commentary about the weather.

Spencer could only blink, shocked. He had no idea what to do next. She should leave. She should definitely leave.

“The way I feel when I’m with you, I’ve never felt this connected to anyone before and my therapist said that sometimes people find unexplainable connections in the most unexpected places. And this is how I feel when I’m around you. I feel grounded, connected. I feel like we are…” She stopped speaking and groaned, turning her back to him and starting to fumble with her things. “You’re clearly horrified by everything I just said. Don’t worry, I won’t report you to the Bureau or anything. I know you just meant well and I’m probably touch starved and read too much into…”

“You feel like we are what?” His mouth worked before he could think. But he couldn’t let her leave without knowing that last part.

She looked at him again, her breath was shallow and her eyes were moist.

“This will sound stupid. It sounds stupid in my head.”

“I won’t make fun of you, no matter what it is,” he solemnly vowed.

“I feel like we are kindred spirits. Like we were made from the same clo…”

This had never happened before. He dropped his keys on top of his counter and took two big steps until he could reach her. Spencer just took her face with his both hands and kissed her. She immediately laced her hands in his hair and gently nibbled on his lower lip, forcing him to open his mouth and accept her in. One of his hands went to her hip and pulled her closer, while he caressed her jaw with his thumb, marvelling to himself at the soft peachy texture of her face.

Her mouth tasted like tea and honey. Her hair smelled like fruits. She thought they were kindred spirits.

Amélia tugged on the hair at his nape and he moaned softly against her mouth. Her hands went to his tie, pulling him with her when she walked backwards, until she hit the back of his couch. She giggled against his mouth, letting go of him to push her already foggy glasses to the top of her head.

He felt lightheaded; his heartbeat was so fast he could feel his hands shaking as he touched her.

With the same decisiveness she would use to rip him to shreds in anger, Amélia was busy undoing the knot of his tie while still hungrily kissing him.

“Amélia, I…” He pulled back a little bit, gently holding her in place by his hands on her hips, and was hit with the wonderful discovery that her face was relaxed and happy, truly open to him for the first time. “I…”

It was kind of stupid. How could he tell a grown woman trying to take his clothes off that it had been almost ten years since he had had sex with another woman? And that, no matter how much he’d wanted and fantasized about doing it with her for weeks, he was afraid of disappointing her?

Her smile faltered and she seemed worried. She let go of him, his undone tie in her hands, and lowered her glasses again.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, sounding genuinely worried.

“It’s… it’s been a while,” he could feel his face getting warm when he said it, and he had to focus on his tie instead of her face.

“Ah.” She didn’t sound disappointed. “We don’t have to do anything today. Do you, hm, I don’t know, do you want to sit on your couch and just make out?”

He frowned, confused.

“You’re not upset?”

She threw the tie on the couch and laced her fingers with his. Spencer was even more surprised when she kissed his cheek.

“Upset?” She kissed his cheek again and her thumbs dew circular patterns on the back of his hands. “You kissed me. You held me. You see me. What do I have to be upset with?”

Spencer let out a relieved sigh and looked at her face again. She had a gentle smile on her lips, looking at him through her long dark lashes. Amélia let go of one of his hands and brushed her fingertips along his jaw. Spencer leaned in to the touch.

“Are you hungry?” He asked, trying to think of what people did when they were in a similar situation. People ate on dates. Was this a date?

“I’ll be, soon enough. Are you inviting me for dinner?”

She had a cocky smile on her lips, but her hand was still gently tracing his features, studying every aspect of his cheeks, his lips, his eyebrows, and his nose.

“Yes, I mean… I’m pretty sure that I have already disrespected my CO’s direct orders and, hm, if I’m going to be punished for this, I want to, at least, you know, be with you tonight and not worry about it for now.”

Amélia chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, thinking.

“Ok. We could order a pizza and watch a movie? Or some Doctor Who episodes?”

He chuckled and leaned in, resting his forehead on hers.

“Sounds perfect.”

***

They threw a picnic blanket over Spencer’s duvet and ate the half mushroom half pepperoni pizza on his bed while Nine and Rose met once more in front of their eyes. Spencer wanted to watch the old black and white ones, but Mia was adamant about needing Rose on that Friday night.

Then they were full and tired, after barely having slept on the prior night. Mia helped him with the dishes and walked to get her purse, which had been forgotten on the floor when he kissed her, two hours before.

“Are you leaving?” He asked, drying his hands on the kitchen towel.

She walked towards him, playing with the zipper in her purse.

“You want me to stay?” She asked.

He swallowed and his face was pink again.

“Stay.” His voice was weak, almost frail at the edges.

Mia reached to tangle her fingers in his hair and kissed him. She had to be on her tiptoes to surprise him. Spencer hugged her once more, his mouth was sweet and spicy with the remnants of the pizza and the soda. She smiled against his lips, delighted that she could kiss him if she wanted to.

He sighed when she kissed his neck and his fingers tugged harder on her sweater.

“Can we sit on the couch? You’re too tall,” she complained, but without any actual annoyance in her voice.

His breath got faster and Amélia pulled away to look at him, still running her fingers against his scalp.

“This will be easier if you tell me what you’re feeling and thinking, Spencer.”

He didn’t let go of her, which was a good sign, even if he was blinking a lot.

“I feel like an idiot for being a 34 year-old man who’s… making such a big deal out of things and... ruining this.” He was frowning now.

Mia kissed him again, just a quick peck on the lips.

“Hey, you’re not ruining anything. I’m not a sex goddess or anything either. It’s been, what, eighteen months since I had sex? And it was pretty mediocre,” she chuckled. “So, if you want us to put on pjs and just cuddle to sleep, I’m game too. I just want you to _tell me_ what you want.”

“That. That sounds good.” He was anxiously smiling.

“Ok. Hm… You can shower first, I’ll fish my things from my suitcase.”

***

A part of him didn’t want to let Amélia out of his field of vision. He feared losing his courage and ending up asking her to leave or calling Emily and telling her to suspend him and take him off the case. He had never considered giving up on a case before. At the same time, he wanted to do all he could to be sure that Amélia would be safe and thosefourteen women, at least, would have some justice.

On the other hand, his fear of disappointing Amélia was making him even more anxious about this whole thing. Kissing was amazing. He probably never really liked to kiss a mouth faintly tasting like pepperoni before. To be fair, he had never liked kissing someone so much before.

He kissed a woman for the first time at a New Year’s Eve party the FBI cadets threw, back when he was one of them. She kissed him at midnight; he was nineteen. All the guys around him whooped and cheered and Spencer had to control his impulse to push her away, since he didn’t want to hurt her feelings or make the other guys think there was something wrong with him. She was beautiful, he knew that. He had wondered what it would be like to kiss her before. And, yet, when it actually happened, he felt nothing.

They ended up dating for a few months and she was also his first. The sex was… A duty. He could have the physiological reactions, if he really focused and tried not to think about her germs on him and his other anxieties. She ended up breaking up with him and telling everyone he was gay.

This led to the first time he kissed a man. A closeted agent pushed him into a bathroom stall and pushed Spencer’s hand inside his pants. He had fantasies about this before. About being brave and being with beautiful people with charming smiles and warm bodies. But the actual thing was…

And then he had that unrequited crush on JJ for a while, later on Derek, which led him to have his only boyfriend, five years before, who also broke up with him. Not that Adam thought Spencer was bad in bed, since Adam just needed Spencer to be quiet and compliant and take him as much as he wanted and… well, he could do it. Sometimes it was almost good.

And now Amélia. She entered his life like a hurricane, messing with his foundations and his priorities. He had never fallen so hard and so fast. She could have _anyone_ she wanted and, for some reason, she wanted him. And he could only worry about what would become of him when she realized what she was signing up for.

He opened the bathroom door and found her reading a book on his couch. She closed it when she heard his steps behind her and threw her head back on the pillows to look at him upside down. With the movement, the collar of her sweater wasn’t enough to cover the bruises on her neck. Spencer wanted to be able to kiss them better.

“You can hop in the shower, if you want. I’ll be going to bed.”

“Ok. See you in a minute.”

***

The bedroom was already dark when Amélia got out of her shower. She got under the covers and realized that Spencer was still awake.

“If you don’t talk to me, I’ll think you want me gone,” she whispered, looking at his back.

“No. I want you here,” he answered, not turning to look at her.

“What’s wrong, then?”

“I’m really bad at this,” he sounded genuinely upset.

“At what?”

“At being someone’s… someone’s… You know. At having adult relationships.”

“Spencer, would you look at me? Please?” She tried to use her most comforting voice.

He turned to face Mia and she could see that his eyes were wet.

“Hey, you’re doing great,” she whispered.

“Don’t lie to me,” he grunted.

“I’m not. I’m figuring things out as I go too. I’ve only had one serious relationship in my life and, before I understood what was going on, Charlie broke up with me because she didn’t love me like I loved her.” Remembering this hurt differently, now that Charlie was dead. “So, one could say that I’m not great at adult relationships either.”

He chuckled.

“My only girlfriend thought I was gay and my only boyfriend thought I worked too much.”

“So, ok, seems like you managed to be creative and have two different problems with two different people. My problem seems to be constant: I tend to fall for the emotionally unavailable or people I just can’t be with. Less creative.”

“I’m not gay,” he added.

“Not that’s any of my business, but I didn’t think you were, since I’m not a guy and all. Cool. I’m not gay either.”

“I don’t know if I like sex.”

This made her be silent for a while, chewing her bottom lip and thinking.

“I like sex,” she stated, very slowly. “It’s not like the most important thing in my life, but I tend to enjoy it a lot when I’m with people I trust.”

“I want to try with you, though. Not today.”

“Ok. We can try and see how things go.” They were in silence again. In the dark, Mia could barely see his features. It was oddly comforting. “But do you like kissing me?”

“Yes. A lot,” he said, eagerly.

This made Mia smile, a warmness spreading through her chest.

“I like kissing you a lot too. You’re a good kisser, Spencer.” She reached for his hair, to pet him, and he nuzzled her hand, kissing her wrist.

“I like touching you.”

He held her hand in place and peppered her inner arm with soft kisses. Mia’s heartbeat was like a samba inside her chest.

“I like touching you too,” she said back, breathless.

Feeling bold, she got closer to him on the bed and he embraced her. One of his hands was massaging her nape and the other spanned her back, pushing their chests together. He was warm, so warm.

“I really like how you smell,” he reverently whispered against her hair.

“I like the sound of y…”

Spencer kissed her again, this time his nervous energy seemed to have dissipated, leaving just tenderness and the initial flame of desire. It was too soon, way too soon, but Mia knew she would love him like she never loved anyone before. He would ruin her and she would gladly let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written anything as soft in my whole life and I'm still processing my feelings from having written this chapter. I thought all of us deserved some comfort after everything we have been through, right?  
> As always, I wanna thank Jackie for being a great Beta and Persimonne for being the sensitivity reader as to Spencer's sexuality  
> To the fans of grizzly murder, don't worry, we will go back to our regular scheduled program soon (with more soft and secret scenes to come)


	12. The Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So she ran from the path into the woods to look for flowers. And whenever she had picked one, she fancied that she saw a still prettier one farther on, and ran after it, and so got deeper and deeper into the woods.

Monday came and found Mia having a hard time focusing. She had left Spencer’s place on Sunday night and moved to a decent hotel with the money Eleanor had lent her, when Ellie left her in front of Spencer’s place on Friday.

He wasn’t sure if he was going to tell the truth to Agent Prentiss. Mia begged him not to, since she trusted no one else to find the truth about Charlie, Natalya, and the other twelve missing women. However, he had disobeyed direct orders just by seeing her and now they were on the edge of legality due to their relationship. Mia tried to research if it was _illegal_ for an agent to be romantically involved with a victim and, although it seemed like it wasn’t, all agents who had been caught in similar positions had been fired. She knew Spencer would never forgive her if she ruined his career, although a part of her really wanted to be free of the conflict that being involved with an FBI agent created for her life ― personally and professionally.

Ishaan called her Monday morning to tell her he was moving forward with the legal procedures of her inheritance as fast as he could and she should be in full possession of the estate by Christmas. He also informed her he was dealing with the insurance company and seeing that they covered the costs of fixing the broken doors and refurbishing the trashed areas of the house. They would conduct their own investigation to be sure that Mia didn’t stage it for the prize money, which amounted to over one and a half million dollars.

Since she got the news that the Bradfords had decided not to fight the will in court, she signed a formal contract with Eleanor, stating she would retroactively pay for her hours as soon as she got a hold of the money. Due to that, Eleanor also let her borrow money to stay in a hotel of her choice under a false name, instead of a safe house guarded by FBI agents. The simple idea of being watched by law enforcement all hours of the day and night gave her so much anxiety that she couldn’t even breathe. She would rather take her chances in a hotel until her house was like new, and with updated security. Ishaan told her to prepare to be away from home for about two weeks and asked if she needed help getting a loan or anything while things were being sorted out. She thanked him and refused the offer.

She managed to get three sick days from Georgetown due to her throat injury, although the doctor had told her she needed to stay away from the classroom for at least two weeks. She almost laughed in their face and had to hold the impulse to ask who would pay her bills then.

Spencer had gotten work calls and emails during the weekend, but he didn’t tell her a thing. They still weren’t able to even sort out how or when they would meet again. Mia hadn’t told him about refusing the detailed protection and the safe house or her money issues. They agreed that they would have 48 hours of denial, so that was what she was doing.

The hotel room was a simple executive suite, with a small shower in the bathroom and a double bed with cheap sheets that smelled like generic detergent. Mia’s budget plan consisted of eating mostly instant noodles and stocking the room’s minifridge with snacks she bought in the small Latin cornershop a few blocks from the hotel. At least the breakfast was included in the room’s charges, so she could overeat in the morning, maybe steal some pancakes for later, and skip lunch.

Tuesday she was able to place three pancakes in a plastic bag before leaving for the No Borders headquarters. Georgetown could have given her the day off, but her supervisor reminded her that she was late with the monthly field report and the grant committee didn’t care how chaotic her life was since Charlotte died.

She let her hair loose and threw a pretty flowery scarf around her neck that day, hoping to avoid her colleagues’ questions about the state of her voice with a simple “it’s just a cold” answer. Eleanor had disclosed to Daniel Borges, the NGO’s director, what happened to Mia, since they were friendly, but she wasn’t interested in sharing the not so awesome news with Laila, who was her annoying deskmate and hadn’t stopped pestering her about her grieving process for “her friend” in a tone that almost let Mia hear the quote marks around the words.

Luckly, this should be a simple week. Mia had to cross reference legal information of people seeking asylum in the U.S. and that was pretty much it. Sometimes she did interviews for her research or acted as an interpreter for the people the NGO helped.

“Good morning, Amélia,” said Daniel from behind her.

Mia was suddenly startled by his presence. She had been working non-stop for two hours, lost in the data. She took a sip of water and turned to him.

“Morning, Daniel,” she greeted him back.

He was a tall man, born in Chile, who moved to the U.S. in the 1970s as a child refugee. He became a citizen in the 1990s and created the No Borders organization with a few friends after 9/11, when the U.S. strengthened the barriers for immigration. Daniel was on every possible watchlist by every possible agency ever since. He would just shrug and laugh it off, usually. His husband, Tiago, was less casual about the whole thing.

“Listen, preciosa, I need you to drop whatever you’re doing and come with me.” He was already pulling her chair back when he said it.

Mia locked her personal computer and got up, very aware of how Laila was probably listening to everything they said.

“What’s going on? Do I need my coat?” Mia wasn’t exactly worried because Daniel’s tone was light and, if it was another FBI or ICE raid, he would have called Laila too.

“Oh, no, it’s just that your ex-brother-in-law is here with a bunch of people and I need you to play hostess with me.”

His legs were longer than hers, so Mia had to almost jog to keep up with Daniel.

“Who is what and you need me to what?”

“You know, the tall blonde brother of the small gringa you used to date.” Daniel made a dismissive gesture with his hands, like he couldn’t bother to remember their names. Mia knew it was all a schtick. 

“Matt is here? Why?” She unconsciously tugged the scarf closer to her neck and adjusted the sleeves of her black dress, the same one she used for Charlie’s wake.

“Amelia, long time no see!” Matt opened his arms when he saw her enter the lobby.

He was tall and broad like Richard, with dark blonde hair, while Charlie was small, petite, and brunette. His shiny white smile would usually trick people into thinking he cared a lot more about them than he likely did. People often told him he looked like a posterboy for the US in the 1950s.

“Hello, Matt, how are Becky and Junior?” Amélia offered her hand to him, who shook it with both of his, enthusiastic. Her smile was restrained and polite, like she usually behaved around the Bradfords.

“Becks is great, I don’t know how she manages to handle all of her responsibilities and be an incredible mom to Junior!” Matt said, like it was some outer-worldly thing that a multimillionaire married woman whose closest concept of “work” was appearing on charity boards once in a while and had an army of servants and nannies to take care of her house and infant son could “handle all of her responsibilities” so well. “Junior is ok, he’s a toddler, you know, but he’s speaking some sentences now. Becks wanted to enroll him in some bilingual preschool next year, but I said this was a bunch of bull, why confuse the head of a baby who barely speaks English adding another language to the mix?”

If Amélia’s smile got more tense with each word out of Matthew’s mouth, Daniel could only appear more and more interested in what he was saying. From what she knew of him, Mia could already picture the impressions Daniel would crack later, at happy hour.

“To what do we owe the honor of such a starry visit, gentlemen?” Daniel asked them.

Mia took a more detailed look at the group standing with Matt in the No Borders’ lobby. They were about ten men, all white and in suits. She recognized some faces from the news as Congressmen and Senators from both parties.

“Goddamnit! Where are my manners?” Matt said, theatrically. “If you meet my mom, don’t tell her I behaved so terribly, ok, Amelia?”

“...Sure,” Mia agreed, still not getting one bit of what was going on.

“These esteemed men are part of a bipartisan initiative to tweak and update some aspects of the DREAM Act. We are going to visit a lot of NGOs this week. I’m acting as a tour guide today because we came to see your charity, Amelia, and formally invite you guys to be a part of the audience next December.”

“I… I’m just a researcher and a volunteer here, Matthew, the head of the whole organization is Daniel Borges.” Mia pointed to Daniel beside her, who looked positively fascinated with the scene developing in front of his eyes.

“I would love to get more details, sirs. Let’s go to our conference room, shall we?” Daniel stepped in, like the perfect diplomat, and guided the group of men, and Amélia, to the small room with a round table and chairs where they had most of their meetings and, apparently, had been upgraded to “conference room” in the last thirty seconds.

Their building was old; Daniel and Tiago spent all their savings on the movement, which had a lot of radical positions and not as many donors. Their central air basically only had three functioning settings: turned off, freezing, or stuffy. Since it was a cold October day, the heating was on, which meant that the tiny and crowded room was suddenly very warm.

Mia grabbed a hairpin on her pocket and made an improvised bun with her loose hair. With her movement, her scarf came loose. Horrified that someone could have noticed the bruises on her neck, Mia looked around the room. Her eyes locked with Senator Hawthorne, one of the youngest Republican Senators currently in office, elected by the state of Ohio in 2009. He seemed to have noticed, but then he quickly averted his blue eyes.

“Mr. Borges,” he spoke, butchering Daniel’s name when he said it. “I don’t wish to be an inconvenience, but I want to know if it would be possible to cool this room a bit, maybe crack a window? My chief of staff would kill me if I wrinkled my jacket today.”

The men laughed and agreed it was a good idea to open a window. Mia was surprised by the small act of kindness of the man who stood against virtually everything she believed in her life. Pro-life, neoliberal, pro-war, pro-guns, pro-oil… Maybe he was an actual gentleman in his private life.

He stayed behind talking to Daniel, when everyone was leaving.

“I would like very much if your research team could assemble a document with the data you collect from the asylum seekers and send it to my chief of staff, Mr. Borges,” he said, giving Daniel his card.

“Sure, Senator. May I ask, why did you volunteer to be a part of this initiative?” Daniel hated Ted Hawthorne.

He swore the Hawthorne family had ties with white supremacist groups. Daniel also claimed that the Senator’s father ― the esteemed Judge Hawthorne, who had a seat on Ohio’s State Court since the 1990s ― was personally responsible for the increase in the incarceration of Black and brown men in Ohio for the past three decades.

However, above all, Daniel was a diplomat.

“I recently met a very interesting person who made me realize I should work more to carry on the great American tradition of welcoming the hard-working immigrants. How does the poem go again? Give me your poor, your tired… Do you happen to know it, Doctor?”

Mia was the only remaining Doctor in the room. She had also stayed behind, cleaning the mess the bunch of uninvited men left.

“Me?” She asked, with a pile of used paper cups in her hands that were about to go in the trash.

“Come on, you must know it, don’t you?” He insisted.

“It’s _The New Colossus_ , by Emma Lazarus,” she mumbled, still confused with the sudden attention.

“Emma Lazarus… I always found the Biblical figure of resurrection fascinating,” Senator Hawthorne mumbled with himself. “So, you still haven’t told us if you know the whole poem or not.” There had a teasing smile on his lips.

Usually, Mia would have risen up to the challenge. Especially considering that this poem was the epigraph to her PhD thesis. But, on that very specific day, she was tired, hungry, and her throat hurt.

“I’m sorry, Senator, I have a lot of work to do. Excuse me, _gentlemen_.” With that, Mia grabbed as many cups as she could and left the room.

***

Monday was a hard day. Like Spencer imagined, the DNA test with Marino’s sample came back negative when compared to the semen found on Charlotte and the epithelial cells found underneath Natalya’s nails. So Spencer and the team spent the day scouring the life of Marino, trying to find a link to Amélia, Charlotte, Natalya, or any of the others. Nothing came up.

Even his victimology was wrong for him to be the main unsub. Marino used to date single mothers, who were mostly Italian-American, light-skinned Black, and Latina women. Amélia fit his profile and perhaps that was the reason why he attacked her. Maybe it was a coincidence and he wasn’t a student of the dangerous monster they were hunting.

Garcia was looking through his old associates, trying to find anyone who could be Marino’s dominant counterpart. Most of his friends were dead, overseas, homeless, or arrested. None of them fit the bill.

She did, however, find an interesting lead. Marino was a known patron of a cop bar close to the 3rd District Precinct. Rossi called the MPD IA to share the news with them and question the Detectives responsible for Piotr Kuznetsov’s arrest about this possible link. So far, the Internal Affairs Detectives had only come to the conclusion that neither Detectives DiMarco nor Smith had any recent weird financial movement in their bank accounts, so bribery wasn’t the motive of their botched investigation.

“Yeah, this is Weird Josh. What about him?” Asked Detective DiMarco, after his union-appointed lawyer signaled with his head that he could answer Rossi’s question.

“What’s the nature of your relationship with him?” Rossi pressed, using his intimidating voice.

“Relationship?” DiMarco scoffed. “I don’t know, man, he’s just a vet who likes to hang with us. He was wacked in the head in Baghdad or something and Uncle Sam just booted him home. That’s why he couldn’t join the force, poor guy.”

“So he told you that his dream was to be a brother in blue?” Rossi’s tone was softer now, finding himself intrigued.

“Are you kidding, man? Josh is weird, but he’s a great guy. He served the country and he wishes he could do more. Now, why are you feds interested in Josh? What did Camilla say this time?”

This made Rossi raise an eyebrow.

“Why don’t you tell us what you think Camilla could have shared with us?”

“Camilla is his bitchest ex. She appears every once in a while at the precinct with some bullshit claim about him, just to drop it when we squeeze her a bit, you know how women are.”

Rossi’s face was open now and DiMarco was feeling at home.

“Come on, you’re Italian too, Agent Rossi. Camilla is one of those Sicilians whose mouth runs faster than her brain and nags a man’s ear off all the time. Every once in a while, her boyfriends lose her temper with her or her annoying kid.”

“And Marino was one of those boyfriends?”

“She claims he’s the kid’s father. Never got the guts to actually do a DNA test and force him to pay alimony, though. So, what did Camilla say this time and why would this be related to Piotr’s girl?”

Rossi had a soft smile on his lips, although he wanted to smash the nose of Detective DiMarco with his fist. He was an old man now, and respected procedure.

“Do you or your partner happen to discuss your cases with ‘Weird Josh’ when you meet at the bar?”

DiMarco looked at his lawyer and they exchanged whispers.

“My client would rather not answer this line of inquiry,” the lawyer answered for him instead.

“It’s no big deal, Marcello. We all vent at our local wateringhole and share some cop stories with the other patrons, you know?” Rossi baited him, hoping he would bite. “Give me a nice Sangiovese and I’ll tell you more stories than your Nonna, for instance.”

“I mean, yeah. Not about open cases, you know,” DiMarco said, ignoring his lawyer’s advice.

“Exactly. You’re a careful cop. But, every once in a while, you need to tell your pals about the bastards that you can’t seem to nail, no matter what.”

“Exactly.”

“Like Piotr, that slimy bastard you were hunting for years but could never have enough evidence for the annoying guys at the DA’s office to finally decide to do something.”

“They don’t know how hard it is to be a cop! We are paid pennies to do the most dangerous job! And a human trash like that gets to parade around town, smacking his girls, selling blow… Everyone knew it and no one did a thing!”

“But you did! You just _knew_ it was him when his girlfriend showed up dead.”

“Who else could it have been?!” DiMarco agreed.

“Precisely! Why even bother to waste time on a different line of investigation when you can just help him confess?”

“I wouldn’t let him get away with it this time!” DiMarco slapped the table. And then he turned pale instantly, realizing what he had done.

“Was Josh aware of your vendetta against Piotr?” Rossi kept pushing, not wanting to give him time to clam up.

“You… I… I mean… They were just cop stories…” He was mumbling, blinking a lot.

“And did you share with him your frustrations about IA and the feds messing up your backyard, Marcello?”

“It wasn’t… It wasn’t just me!” His voice was getting desperate now. “Do you know how hard we work to keep this place clean, just so you can waltz over and shit on everything we do?!” There was a vein pulsing on his throat. “I have four mouths to feed and my wife is a preschool teacher, I don’t have the luxury to get suspended!”

“What did you do with the evidence from Natalya’s murder, Marcello?” Rossi carefully asked, trying to sound like a friend.

DiMarco’s jaw was working and he was very red. He looked at his lawyer in despair.

“This interview is over, I need to speak with my client in private.”

After that interview, DiMarco opted not to cooperate with the investigation anymore. Smith had been pleading the Fifth since the beginning and he would just listen to Emily’s theories about his corrupt behavior with his head cocked to the side and a smug smile on his lips. When she described the interview with DiMarco to him, embellishing it a bit and leading him to think that DiMarco’s lawyer was negotiating a plea bargain with IA to throw Smith under the bus, Smith’s face changed. He went from arrogant to furious.

“I would like to see this rat try,” he snarled, between locked teeth.

“Why is that, Detective? Is it because DiMarco is as guilty as you?” Emily pressed him.

But Smith was arrogant again. He crossed his arms over his chest and broke eye contact.

“Nice try,” and then, under his breath, he added, “bitch.”

Those were the last words Smith spoke to Emily before reverting back to absolute silence. They would have to try to turn up the heat on both Detectives, try to sow distrust between them, and see if maybe one of them would crack.

By the end of Monday, the IA Detectives informed Emily they were going to charge DiMarco and Smith with coerced false confession and tampering with evidence, which should trigger immediate suspension without pay and perhaps could lead to them being fired. Although this was an unlikely outcome, since they couldn’t prove beyond reasonable doubt that the Detectives were personally involved in the disappearance of the file and the evidence. And it was possible that a jury would be highly sympathetic with their decision to arrest Piotr, even if he was potentially innocent of Natalya’s rape and murder.

***

Marino woke up Tuesday afternoon. His Doctors authorized the BAU to question him, but insisted they remain mindful of his delicate condition. Emily chose Luke for the task, hoping he could build rapport on the fact that both men were Army vets. She also asked JJ to go with him, to see if they could get a reaction from him being close to a woman who fit the victimology of their wanted strangler.

Half of his torso was wrapped around in bandages and he had a breathing tube taped under his nose, helping him breathe. Even with all the blood transfusions he had gotten in the past four days, Marino was still very pale. His size was massive, however, and there wasn’t a doubt on Luke and JJ’s mind that he _could_ have strangled fourteen women and dragged their bodies into oblivion. Even if he lacked the planning skills to execute so refined murders, like the twelve disappearances seemed to be.

Still, they shouldn’t underestimate Marino. Even in a hospital gown and bandages, he was as harmless as an injured wolf.

“Good day, Corporal,” Luke said, standing at parade rest, close to his bed. He took his ID from his pocket and showed him. “I’m SSA Luke Alvez and I heard that you went to hell and back in Baghdad, but what finally got you down was a couple of MPD officers.”

Marino let out a small chuckle.

“What regiment did you serve with?” He asked Luke.

“The 75th Rangers.”

This made Marino whistle in appreciation.

“A Ranger. We have a real American hero here!” And he laughed, relaxed. “And you, blondie? What brings you to my death bed?”

“I’m SSA Jenniffer Jareau and I’m here to get your deposition on the crimes you’re being accused of,” JJ spoke very firmly.

“Hey, give the guy a break, will, you, Jareau? He’s given years of his life to protect his country and he deserves respect.” They had, obviously, agreed on the schtick. Marino was a classic misogynist. He would probably open up to another. “So, come on, Corporal, we are here to listen to your side of the story.”

“What are the crimes I’m being accused of, again?” He asked, almost innocently.

“I’m pretty sure that you’ve had your Miranda Rights read to you already by the Agent who was here when you woke up and that she told you exactly what crimes you’re being accused of,” JJ answered, sounding annoyed.

“Yes, yes, but I want to hear them again.”

“Trespassing. Breaking and Entering. Destruction of Private Property. Aggravated Assault. And, finally, Attempted Murder,” she said without any emotion on her voice.

He chuckled, delighted.

“Your list is incomplete, blondie.”

“Is it, Corporal? How so?” Luke asked him.

Marino turned to him, still smiling, and licked his lips.

“It’s missing the two whores I offed in the past months.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE PLOT THICKENS!
> 
> Some of my inspirations to write this investigation (besides IRL events and cases) are the following shows/movies: "Unbelievable" (2019, Netlix), "When they see us" (2019, Netflix), "Deep Water" (2016, Netflix), "The secret in your eyes" (2009, Argentinian movie), "The Fall" (2013, BBC), "The Bletchley Circle" (2012, Netflix) and more.  
> If you want to talk about this or other stuff, I'm on [ Twitter!](https://twitter.com/nerd_leoa)  
> Fun fact! On my Twitter, [ I share my fancast for all OCs I create here!](https://twitter.com/nerd_leoa/status/1351571350515806210)  
> (For instance, Daniel and Tiago are modeled after Pedro Pascal and Oscal Isaac hehehehe)  
> I'm eager to read your thoughts in the comments!


	13. Spinning gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the girl was alone the little man returned for a third time. He said, "What will you give me if I spin the straw this time?"  
> "I have nothing more that I could give you," answered the girl.

To everyone’s absolute dismay, Marino provided a full account of how he stalked and killed Natalya and Charlotte, whom he referred to by their street names, “Irina” and “Valerie,” respectively.

He spoke of how he waited for them to leave their last John of the night, the identity of whom he claimed to have no idea, and then dragged the girls to a black van he had bought at the MPD’s annual auction in 2014 and added stolen plates to, later, for this specific end. He said he met them when he worked a temp job as a bouncer at a very exclusive club where they went to hunt for clients and they were “bitches” to him. He strangled each of them for about two hours, while they had their limbs tied up with red silk rope.

“Why red silk rope?” JJ asked him.

He just shrugged.

“I was feeling fancy.”

The red silk rope was a detail that they hadn’t shared, even with the MPD. The FBI coroner found fibers of it in the gashes on Natalya’s wrists and ankles, and Charlotte’s ankles.

“Why them, Corporal? They aren’t even your type.” With that, Luke opened the pictures of Marino’s last five girlfriends, including Camilla Russo, on his tablet. At the end, there was Doctor Ferreira. Seeing them made Marino’s heartbeat increase, as the machine attached to his chest could tell them. “Now, her? Her, I understand. She’s just how you like them, right? Dark, unruly hair, with big dark eyes and beautiful tanned skin. She gets your blood boiling.”

“I…” Marino seemed stumped. “They were bitches. I hated them.”

That was not the story his body was telling, however. Luke was about to keep pressing him, and then Marino added:

“I want a lawyer now.”

***

Marino’s lawyer wasn’t a cheap hack like they were expecting, but, instead, Shanice Johnson, who was one of the biggest Criminal Attorneys in the whole southeastern US. She would always wear well-cut and extra feminine pantsuits and heavy makeup, and spoke with a slow and melodious Louisiana accent. Her extremely polite manners hid her deadly trial skills, sharp as her long sparkly nails, which could always throw glitter in the eyes of a jury and make them dismiss the most damning evidence. Only three of her clients ever got the Federal Death Penalty in the over thirty years of her career.

Shanice appeared not three hours after Marino asked for a lawyer and, within forty minutes, she was calling the District of Columbia US Attorney’s office to discuss his plea bargain. The U.S. Attorney had decided to personally handle the plea bargain with Marino, which involved him also providing testimony against Detectives DiMarco and Smith in their upcoming trial. In exchange, Marino was going to enjoy the next fifty years of his life in a Federal prison.

Since Marino was still under medical care on that Wednesday, Shanice, Linda Barnes, Emily, and the U.S. Attorney met in his hospital room to sign the plea. Emily tried to argue with Linda Barnes that Marino didn’t fit their profile and there were holes in his story. Linda didn’t want to hear it. They had a suspect willing to confess with a good enough story. His confession would help to nail two crooked cops, appease the press, and bring closure to the Bradford family.

As for the other twelve missing women, they had no bodies, no evidence, no witnesses, and no proof that they were even dead. Undocumented immigrants and sex workers disappear all the time through the cracks of the system. Not everything was a conspiracy and the official position of the FBI was that this was no exception. Occam’s Razor and all.

“So, Shanice, what brought your attention to this case?” Emily casually asked her, passing the papers to JJ, who was seated on her right.

The only things that Marino refused to cop to were the rapes. He was too proud of his macho lover reputation to admit that he could ever rape a woman. So, in his confession, he let that fall on the supposed unknown John both Natalya and Charlotte had seen before he kidnapped them.

“You know, sugar, it’s no biggie to do a pro-bono here and there when there’s this much free publicity attached to the case. Also, it’s good for my tax refunds,” Shanice answered with her most kind smile on her face.

“That’s what brings you here, then? Fame and glory?” JJ scoffed.

Shanice tutted at her.

“I already have plenty of those, Agent, but a girl gotta make sure people don’t forget her name.”

***

Spencer and Tara drove to Portsmouth that same Wednesday. It was Marino’s hometown and where Camilla Russo had gone back to in March of 2015, after one more frustrated visit to the 3rd District Precinct. According to Garcia’s findings, she worked as a cashier in a local fast-food chain and as part of the cleaning crew at one of the local high schools. Her son, Lucca, had been born in 2005, when Camilla was a High School Sophomore and Josh was a Senior and the star of their football team. Camilla dropped out of school when Lucca was 7 months-old, right after Josh was deployed to Iraq. Out of her parents’ home, Camilla and Lucca moved to a trailer park. In 2009, when Josh was discharged, she moved to DC with him. Between 2009 and 2015, Camilla and Lucca had more than thirty “domestic accidents” that led them to various hospitals’ Emergency Rooms. Child & Family Services had been called on two occasions, but Camilla ran away before they could arrive and CFS was too swamped to follow-up.

Now Camilla was back at the trailer park. Although DiMarco stated Camilla had multiple boyfriends, that wasn’t what Garcia found out about her. The only man who appeared to be a constant in Camilla’s life was Josh. Why he wouldn’t claim his son was a mystery.

Tara knocked on the frame of the screen door when they arrived. According to Garcia, Camilla was usually home around 3 p.m., when Lucca came back from school.

It was the 10 year-old boy who opened the door to them. He wore a ratty t-shirt and jeans two sizes too big, held in place with a grown man’s belt. Lucca had the same brown eyes as Josh, and the same huge floppy ears and plush lips.

“Mooooooooom! The feds are here!” He called as soon as he saw Spencer and Tara’s badges.

Camilla showed up soon after, sweaty and tired, with her long black hair in a messy ponytail, and still wearing her fast-food uniform. Still, she was strikingly beautiful.

“Good day, Agents, how can I help you?” She asked, through the screen door.

“Good day, Ms. Russo, I’m Doctor Tara Lewis and this is Doctor Spencer Reid, we are Supervisory Special Agents with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, from the FBI. We would like to ask you a few questions about Joshua Marino.”

She went very tense at Tara’s words, her right hand grabbing the doorknob like it was a lifeline.

“Did he send you here?” She asked, in a low tone. “Oh my god, are you friends of his too?” Camilla let out a sob.

“No, no, Ms. Russo, we can guarantee that we aren’t friends with your ex nor are we here on his behalf. He’s the main suspect in our investigation and we are looking for your help,” Spencer tried to placate her.

This made her look around, scared.

“I don’t believe you. This is a test, isn’t it? You can tell Josh that I’ve learned my lesson and I’m behaving. I won’t say a thing about him.”

“Ms. Russo, Camilla, Josh was apprehended trying to kill a Federal witness and earlier today he signed a plea bargain admitting to, among other things, two murders. He’s going away for a long time; you don’t need to fear him or his friends anymore,” Tara spoke.

Camilla pressed her hand against her mouth and muffled another sob.

“Lucca!” She called inside the trailer. “Go to Mrs. Williamson’s trailer! See if Gavin is there to play with you!”

“But, mom, I don’t want to! It’s too cold there!” The boy answered from inside the trailer.

“Don’t talk back to me, boy! I need to have a grown up talk and you can’t be here!”

Lucca showed up a minute later, wearing a huge bomber jacket and dragging his feet as he walked.

“What did he do this time?” He mumbled to himself as he passed by Spencer and Tara.

As soon as Lucca left, they were ushered inside. The trailer only had the tiny living room, which seemed to also work as the kitchen and Lucca’s room at the same time, and two more plastic doors. Camilla was nervously trying to tidy things up, picking up laundry from the floor and gathering a bunch of knick-knacks that were randomly strewn over the couch.

“Please, don’t notice the mess. You know how boys are at this age, they never pick up after themselves and… I try, I really try, Agents.” She was standing in the middle of the room, arms full of things, and looking exhausted and ashamed.

“You’re doing your best, Camilla,” Tara offered, gently.

Camilla let out a deep sigh.

“Please, sit down. I’ll just… Put this mess away and I’ll get you some lemonade.”

She opened one of the plastic doors and Spencer could briefly see a tiny bedroom, as messy as the living room, into which she threw the mess from her arms before coming back to the couch. Tara had seated herself, but Spencer just couldn’t. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that he could see the layer of dust that covered everything in there.

Camilla filled two plastic cups with tap water and threw instant lemonade powder in them before offering them to Spencer and Tara.

“What do you want to know about Josh? I haven’t seen him since March, when he disappeared for a whole day and I took the opportunity to grab my things and come back here.” She was standing in front of Spencer, arms crossed on her chest, but she looked at Tara.

“You’ve known Josh for all your life. We wanted to get a good picture of who he is as a man,” Tara answered her.

Camilla nervously chewed on her thumb’s nail before speaking.

“Well, you probably already know what I’m going to say, but, what the hell, right? Josh’s dad took off when he was three. He was in the Army and one day he never came back from deployment. We know he isn’t dead because Mr. Roberts, the owner of the corner store near Josh’s mom’s house, said he saw Mr. Marino once in Norfolk and that he had another family there. Rita raised Josh all by herself. She worked at Mr. Roberts’ store for twenty years.”

“We saw a death certificate; Rita passed this January?” Tara asked.

“Yeah. Cancer. The woman smoked like a chimney. She also drank more than an old pickup truck. She was no saint, you know? Josh was a wild child and she wasn’t afraid of beating the shit out of him when he pushed her too far.” Camilla stopped speaking for a moment. “Excuse me, I need a glass of water.”

She got another plastic cup and filled it with tap water, drinking in big gulps before speaking again.

“She was mean to him, you know?” Camilla said. “But Josh was sweet. He was really kind to me… Before.”

“Before the Army, you mean?” This time it was Spencer who spoke.

Camilla nodded in agreement.

“He always had angry fits. But, before, he would break a chair or punch a wall. He’s big, you know, so he gets a lot of big emotions inside of him. But I wasn’t afraid of him when we were in school. He was my first.” She was looking through the dirty window now, lost in memories. “He took me to prom and gave me a rose the next morning. That’s when I got Lucca.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why isn’t Josh on Lucca’s birth certificate?” Tara spoke again.

Camilla let out a sad laugh.

“She hated me. Rita. She would call me a whore and a bunch of things in Italian, as if she had ever travelled further than Norfolk in her life. She filled Josh’s head with a bunch of shit and convinced him that he couldn’t be sure that Lucca is really his.” Camilla filled her cup again. “As if Lucca isn’t his father’s spitting image!”

“Now, Camilla, I want you to remember that we are Federal agents and we are _arresting_ Josh and two of his cop friends,” Tara said. “You don’t need to fear us or hide anything from us.”

“That’s good, for a change,” Camilla muttered to herself.

“Could you talk a bit about his friends? Did you ever get to meet any of them?” Tara asked.

This made Camilla start chewing on her nail again.

“It was 2009. Josh was unemployed and he wasn’t doing very well. He saw a lot of fucked up shit in Iraq. It ruined him. The whole thing ruined him forever.” She let out a sigh. “And then one day I got angry, I was tired. I was working three jobs and Josh didn’t even help watch Lucca. I had to leave him with a neighbor or Josh would just drink his weight in cheap bourbon and let the boy starve. And… Well, I nagged him. I nagged and nagged about how filthy the house was and how I wanted to move back home and he lost his patience and slapped me. He didn’t put his whole weight in it, you know, but you’ve met him, he’s _huge_. So I fell and hurt my arm and one of the neighbors called the cops on us. They were busybodies like that. Meddlers.”

“What did the cops do?” Spencer spoke.

Camilla shrugged.

“Officer DiMarco, he wasn’t a Detective yet, just said Josh should be more mindful of his size and look into VA services. And maybe go drink at a bar, instead of doing it at home.”

“So they didn’t log the complaint?” Spencer pressed.

Camilla seemed smaller now, as if she was trying to make herself disappear.

“Why should he? The whole thing was my fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Camilla.” Tara had gotten up and closer to her. “If you still want to press charges, everything he did to you in the past three years is still within the statute of limitations. If you want to report Detective DiMarco or any other cop to the MPD IA, that’s within your rights as well.”

“Yeah, right.” Camilla laughed it off. “Sure, Doctor. I’ll think about it.”

Spencer knew she wouldn’t.

“Camilla, of his friends you have known, does anyone stand out?” He asked.

“What do you mean?” Camilla was frowning, confused.

“Are there any of them that you are particularly afraid of?”

She laughed, bitter, again.

“Doctor Reid, there isn’t a single one of his friends that I’m _not_ afraid of.”

***

Camilla ended up naming a few of Marino’s friends she was particularly afraid of. Of them, Jack Walsh was the only one currently in the United States and alive, approaching the end of his 180 days jail sentence in Maryland. Jack had been born in New York, in the year of 1978, into a working class family. Unlike Marino, his home hadn’t been broken and nothing seemed out of place at first glance. His father was a plumber, his mother was a secretary, he had two siblings, with apparently normal lives.

Jack finished High School in the middle of his class; his teachers’ reports mentioned his intelligence, but also his disregard for standardized testing. He joined his father’s business soon after and married in June of 2000. In September of 2001, Jack enlisted in the Navy and was deployed to Iraq, quickly rising the ranks until being recruited by the SEALs. Most of his file after joining the SEALs was considered classified, other than his discharge in 2008 after being injured by bomb shards in his shoulder, which earned him a Purple Heart medal. After that, for no apparent reason, he moved with his family to a suburban house in Silver Spring, MD. He filed his taxes as an independent contractor and, by his account balance, they extrapolated Jack made about $400,000 a year. His monthly income payments didn’t stop even after he had been arrested, in April of 2015. Garcia traced the invoices to an account in the Cayman Islands, but she wasn’t able to go further than that.

According to Camilla, Jack had hired Josh for a security detail job in 2013, to protect some big-shot. Josh had to sign a NDA for it and hadn’t mentioned anything about who the guy was or what the job had been about; she only knew that he had travelled to some paradisiac private island and come back with a tan and a bunch of money. Jack was the person who referred Josh to his job at the company he had been working in until March.

As to why Camilla was particularly afraid of him, she wasn’t able to explain it well. All of Josh’s friends were idiots, drunks, drug users. They were all rude to her and scared her when they showed up at their place. But Jack… Jack was nothing like that. Jack always spoke in a low voice, was extremely polite, even brought flowers for Camilla when he was invited for dinner.

“He loved my parmigiana,” she had said, while locking the trailer door when they were leaving.

They had to stop the interview for a moment so she could change uniforms, and then interrupt it completely because Camilla was getting late for her second job.

“What was wrong with him, then?” Tara asked her.

The young woman stood in the cold, with her ineffective coat embracing her over the uniform she wore when she worked with the High School cleaning crew. After a while, she finally managed an uncertain answer.

“It’s in his eyes, I guess. His smile never crinkles them.” She rubbed her hands in front of her, trying to warm herself. “He looks at you without blinking. Like you were… I don’t know, prey.”

***

Mia had to go to Georgetown in the middle of her sick leave because the head of the Sociology department wanted to see her. It was about her extension request.

She had to use all her strength to not cry on the subway. It wasn’t the end of the world to be let go just a couple of months before becoming a millionaire and Eleanor and Ewa could help her. They were already helping her. She would pay them back in double for every cent.

Even if she had been thinking about quitting just a month before. Even if she was underpaid and had long hours and endless work. Even if she could talk with Daniel about staying on at No Borders full time now. Even so. Mia didn’t feel relieved at this meeting.

She felt like the voices in her head, telling her all her life that she was a big fraud, were right. Her father was right. There may be such a thing as a genius, but she wasn’t one of them. She had a few quirks and special skills, but they were nothing to the academic world.

She knew the truth and now the rest of the world would know too. She was a failure.

“So, Amélia, you have been a postdoctoral fellow with us for the past six years,” Professor Wong began by saying.

They were seated across from each other on opposite sides of her huge hardwood work desk. Professor Melissa Wong was a fifty-something woman, who had been born and raised in California. Her PhD thesis on Gender Dynamics in post-revolutionary China had made a huge splash when it was published, in the late 1980s. Since then, she had become one of the most respected researchers in her field and, for the past ten years, the head of the Sociology Department at Georgetown. She was a short woman, best known by her colleagues for her sharp and ironic remarks during Department meetings.

She was the best friend of Mia’s supervisor, Professor Esther Cohen. Professor Wong and Mia had a friendly relationship.

“Yes, Professor Wong,” Mia agreed, not knowing what else to say.

“I called you here because the committee decided not to renew your fellowship,” she looked at Mia through her thick glasses, which made her eyes look very small.

Mia swallowed the knot in her throat.

“I… Sure. I understand completely, Professor Wong. I can go to my office and get my things…” She was interrupted by Professor Wong’s raised hand.

“I wasn’t finished yet, Amélia.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Professor Wong gave her a sympathetic smile.

“It’s my understanding that you are now to inherit a large sum of money and perhaps will be interested in re-evaluating your personal and professional goals.”

When the older woman stayed in silence, Mia got more anxious.

“I’m sorry, but was… was that a question?” Mia asked, flustered.

“Yes, yes. Are you still interested in academic research and teaching?” Professor Wong adjusted herself in her chair, observing Mia as if she was an interesting subject to study.

Mia had no honest answer to that question, but she would need a good recommendation letter from Georgetown if she wanted to keep teaching in the future.

“Yes. All my life has revolved around Academia and I love to teach.”

This made Professor Wong’s smile get wider.

“Very well, then. We want to offer you a position as an Associate Professor in the Sociology Department, with an annual salary of $90,000. This is a tenure track position, so you could grow your roots and spread your wings here, my dear, if you choose to say yes.”

Mia was stumped.

“You… You are not going to renew my fellowship because you… want to hire me?” She asked, confused.

Professor Wong chuckled.

“Yes, Amélia. Is that so weird?”

“Well, I’m not so productive, and lately, my life has been utter chaos…”

“Let us worry about that, ok? Right now, you just need to think about this proposition and give me an answer in the next 48 hours. Esther, of course, has been an active part in this decision, so you don’t need to worry about her feelings either.”

Nothing made sense lately. Nothing.

Later, Mia would barely be able to remember the words she said, accepting the job, and how she had called her mother and cried with joy in the hallway outside Professor Wong’s office. Reality came back to her when she opened Charlie’s contact to call her right after.

Swallowing more tears, Mia decided to text her one more time.

“u were right in the end, charls

i wish u were here to drink v expensive champagne w me

i miss u every day”

She called Eleanor, instead, who invited her for dinner at her place with Ewa. It was a Thursday, but Mia had  _ finally _ gotten the job. She was safe now.

It might seem odd to an external observer that a woman who was worth over 130,000,000 dollars could only feel safe with a job that paid her a little more than U$7,000 a month. But she hadn’t deserved nor liked the money Charlie had left her. She didn’t trust it.

This, though, this was finally something she had done for herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!  
> I had an issue with my laptop and a few friends suggested me to create a Ko-Fi, so [I did!](https://ko-fi.com/nerdleoa) I already got the goal money to pay for the new parts I have to buy, but I decided to let it up in case anyone wants to pay me a coffee (actually, it will probably pay for kibbles to my cats) for my stories!  
> If any of you can and want to contribute with anything, it will be immensely appreciated  
> As to our mistery... There's a thread to be pulled, but where will it lead? And don't forget: this story is about Amélia


	14. homeland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And DC, do you ever think about marking it on your skin?"
> 
> "DC is a barely closed wound on my face, Spencer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW. It also will have a lot of discussions on the nature of sex and sexual intimacy. It's mostly comfort, almost fluffy, but with a smidge of hurt. Content Warning: there's a scene with explicit Professor/student roleplay. If this is a trigger or a squick, the scene goes from "...and his overgrown hair brushed Mia's nose when he dived in to kiss her jaw" to "His hands danced on her ribcage for a moment".  
> I hope you like reading this one as much as I liked writing it.

After Emily told them on Thursday that the Director officially considered the Bradford/Petrovna case closed and they would have the weekend off before moving on to the next case on Monday, Penelope declared that they were going to have a small happy hour.

There was nothing happy about that night. Every once in a while, they couldn’t get an unsub right away due to lack of evidence and this was bad. But being told to stop an investigation because there was no political interest in undoing a clearly wrong investigation path was way worse. Spencer wanted a drink. He wanted drugs. Anything to numb all the anger and frustration he felt bottling up inside him.

Amélia would hate him when she knew.

“Earth to Spencer,” JJ’s voice called him back to the present and his friends.

“Oh, yes, hey. I’m sorry for dazing off,” he apologized, swirling his soda on his glass a few times just to hear the ice clinking inside it. “It’s just… I still can’t believe this… I can’t believe they just closed the case and chose to ignore the profile.”

“CSU found Natalya and Charlotte’s DNA in Marino’s van yesterday, Spencer,” JJ had that empathetic look on her face. Sometimes it annoyed him, made him feel like she was looking at him the same way she looked at Henry. “Look, I agree with our profile. I also think that those missing women are probably dead and that Marino is, at least, protecting someone.”

“He didn’t kill them,” Luke interrupted her. “You were in the room when I showed him their pictures. I could be showing real estate and he would be more interested. And we all know that it takes _a lot of interest_ to torture someone with manual strangulation for two hours or more.”

JJ frowned at him, taking a sip of beer before speaking again.

“I don’t think he’s our guy either, but no one here is a kid and we all know that the evidence against him was piling up and there was a lot of political interest in closing this. Now Richard Bradford can stop asking for Emily’s head to our bosses.”

“He was doing what?” Spencer turned to JJ, shocked.

Emily raised her hands on the side of her head, anxious.

“You weren’t supposed to have told them, JJ!” Emily chastised her. “Listen, it’s not that serious, ok? He is an annoyed billionaire, used to getting what he wants when he wants it. It took a while to convince him that we shouldn’t arrest Doctor Ferreira, and then he was pretty angry that we hadn’t made any arrests. His friends stopped harassing the Director now.”

Spencer’s phone vibrated on the table and the screen showed a new text from an unsaved number.

“dottore, voglio baciarti…” Could be read on the preview.

“Baciarti?” Emily stopped her train of thought when she read it too, upside down, from her seat across the table. “Spencer, do you have a secret Italian girlfriend?” She teased, laughing.

Feeling his face on fire, Spencer grabbed his phone quickly and took it out of their reach. Rossi stopped drinking his whiskey and watched the scene unfolding in front of him with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh my god! You have a secret girlfriend!” JJ tried to take the phone from his hands, laughing.

“Look how he’s blushing! That’s so adorable, _dottore_!” Garcia joined, already drunk from her mojitos and relaxed, almost slouching over Luke.

He got up from the booth, trying to get away from them.

“I… I don’t have a secret Italian girlfriend!” He said, stammering, clutching on the fact that it was true. Amélia wasn’t Italian. And he couldn’t say if she was his girlfriend. “And this kind of behavior would not encourage me to tell you guys if I was seeing someone.”

They stopped laughing, looking chastised, and Spencer took the opportunity to run to the sidewalk and finish reading the text in peace.

“dottore, voglio baciarti. incontriamoci a casa tua tra un’ora? 🌹” [1]

His heart hammered on his chest. There was no doubt that the text came from Amélia. She just assumed he could read Italian and Spencer hoped that she wasn’t harboring any fantasies of actually _talking_ to him in Italian, because his skills in speaking foreign languages never were his strongest suit.

He typed back a simple "I'll be there," and walked back inside the bar. His body hummed with the nervous energy running through his veins. He had never done anything like this before. The table went silent when he grabbed his coat.

"I… forgot I had already made plans tonight…" He fished a few bills from his wallet inside it to pay for his soda and sandwich.

"No worries, Spencer. You should be putting that pretty mouth of yours to good use anyway," Penelope giggled.

Usually, he would just leave, but now he remembered that he should have said something earlier. He should have corrected them on the spot.

"Adam wasn't my _girlfriend_ , JJ," he said, looking straight into his best friend's eyes. "You guys know this."

He looked around the table, serious. Only Penelope met his stare.

"I'm sorry, Spencer… I… I forgot," JJ stuttered. She pushed a strand of her hair back behind her ear before speaking again. "Do you have a secret Italian _boyfriend_ , Spence?"

Her teasing smile was an attempt at making peace. Spencer wasn't in the mood to fight, he wanted to meet Amélia.

"No." He put his wallet away and dressed his coat. "Ok, guys, see you Monday."

***

Spencer was just finishing cleaning up a bit of the mess in his living room when the doorbell rang. Amélia stood on the other side of the door, wearing a hooded red coat over a long, turtle-necked, yellow-mustard dress. The cut on her eyebrow was healing well. Her curls were very defined that day and her lashes looked impossibly longer.

"You're not wearing glasses," he blabbered as she walked in. She had a small leather backpack on her.

She took her backpack and her coat and hung them beside his door, looking at him over her shoulder with a sly smile on her lips.

"I have my contacts on. All the better to see you with, my dear."

She was fumbling with her backpack, getting something from it.

"Are you the wolf or little red riding hood tonight, Amélia?" He asked her, crossing his arms over his chest, but unable to hide the smile on his lips.

Amélia walked towards him with a slim and square object packaged in wrapping paper in her hands. She stopped really close to him, tilting her head up towards his face, still smiling.

"Which one do you like better, galego?" Her fresh minty breath hit his face and Spencer let his hands hold her arms. She was _there_.

"Gah...leh...go?" He asked, laughing at his own accent. Amélia laughed with him, her nose scrunched with it and Spencer was trying really hard to not kiss her.

"It's an endearing term. Means 'fair haired.'" Her voice was almost healed.

The hoarseness lingered on the edges of the hushed tone with which Amélia spoke, but it was almost like before, when it was strong, clear, and bright. Spencer wondered about the bruises on her neck.

"I have a gift for you," she kept speaking, and pushed the package against his chest.

"A gift? But it's not my birthday!" He exclaimed, taking the present in his hands and running his fingers over the silky paper. "It's a record?"

"Yes! I like to wander through the city when I have free time and there's this small record store near my hotel. I couldn't believe it when I saw that they had this record in vinyl and I just knew I had to get it for you."

Spencer ripped the paper open. The bottom half of the cover was in bright red and its top half had a simple black and white picture of a man singing into a microphone. In stylized letters, it said "Caetano Veloso - Transa."

"This is the album that Caetano released in 1972, when he was exiled in London. It's bilingual, the songs mix English and Portuguese, and the style navigates through Brazilian folk, Brazilian popular music, classic rock, and experimental. It redefined a lot in Brazilian music and inspired other artists, even in the international scene." She was talking fast, excited. "I relate deeply to the whole… _vibe_ of this."

"So, Caetano is the artist."

"Yes."

"And what does this other word mean? 'Transa?'"

Amélia bit her lower lip and smiled dangerously.

"It's slang. It can be a noun or a verb and it means a lot of things. Vibing, being high on drugs, connecting with someone, doing business with someone…" She got even closer and rested one of her hands over his heart. "And, also, it means sex."

She probably could feel that his heartbeat spiked and his breath got shallow.

"Amélia..."

"Like this, Spencer, we can mean a lot of things. I can be the little girl in the woods or the wolf. Or none of it at all. Ask me and it's yours."

He swallowed, his throat feeling very dry.

"I'll play the record. There's water and OJ in the fridge; you can help yourself to it, if you want some."

Amélia stepped back, taking her hand away from him, and didn't move anymore. She was studying him, analyzing his behavior as if it was data for her research. If she could explain it to him in the end, Spencer would be really grateful, because he didn't know what made him run to the other side of the room to play a record, instead of kissing her like he wanted to. He wanted to. He could feel how much he wanted to. It almost suffocated him.

The first song started with an acoustic guitar and then an electric guitar came right after and the instruments had a short duet in the intro before the singer's velvety voice said his first words, almost whispering.

_You don't know me_

_Bet you'll never get to know me_

Spencer froze for a moment, listening to the lyrics he never expected to hit so deep within himself.

_You don't know me at all_

_Feel so lonely_

_The world is spinning round slowly_

When he turned to look, he saw Amélia standing in the middle of the room, her dark eyes burned him, hot as coal. She had taken her shoes off.

_There's nothing you can show me from behind the wall_

_Show me from behind the wall_

_Show me from behind the wall_

_Show me from behind the wall_

The song turned into a mantra, the singer's voice was louder now, repeating the words over and over. Spencer could feel them tugging at something in his chest. He got up and walked towards Amélia, not having a game plan at all. She reached for his hand and, without a word, started dancing slowly around him.

_Show me from behind the wall_

_Why don't you show me from behind the wall_

_Nasci lá na Bahia, de mucama com feitor_

_O meu pai dormia em cama_

_Minha mãe no pisador_

_Laia, ladaia, sabatana, Ave Maria [2]_

She ran her hands over his arms, face, and hair, and circled him, like a fox stalks a rabbit. When she pressed her back against his and rested her head on his shoulder, Spencer entangled his fingers with hers and let her guide him through whatever this was. A vibe. Being high. Connecting. Business.

Sex.

_You don't know me_

_Bet you'll never get to know me (Eu, você, nós dois, já temos um passado, meu amor)_

_You don't know me at all (Um violão guardado, aquela flor)_

_Feel so lonely_

_The world is spinning round slowly (E outras mumunhas mais)_

_There's nothing you can show me from behind the wall_

_Show me from behind the wall_

_C'mon an' show me from behind the wall_

_Show me from behind the wall_

_Why don't you show me from behind the wall [3]_

Amélia let go of his right hand and wrapped herself around him with his left arm. They were dancing hip to hip now, her head resting on his chest, her curls spreading over his shirt. He was in a trance, watching her relaxed face and semicerrated eyes, feeling her small fingers laced with his resting over her hip bone. They were barely moving now, his feet were in the same place as they had been since she touched his hand. The thing tugging in his chest pulled harder when Amélia raised her left arm and her nimble fingers found the hairs on his nape. She was just playing with them, appearing to have no intent at all besides a need to touch him in every way possible.

Spencer lowered his head even more and kissed her forehead lightly. His right hand went to her jaw and his thumb idly caressed her skin when he kissed her hair. She sighed, never stopping to move them with the rhythmic thuds of the song that suddenly ended.

Another began, with a quicker pace. The initial drums resembled reggae and the singer was now talking about life and death and knowing how flimsy everything was. Amélia tried to let go of his hand to keep dancing alone, but Spencer pulled her against him, even though he had no idea how to dance to this or to anything else. But, as the singer repeated in another trance inducing song, he was alive. Alive and Amélia was there.

She smiled and laced her fingers on his nape when Spencer let his hands roam her back. She laughed when he tripped on their feet, so genuine and free of any judgement that Spencer kissed her. The drums vibrated in their bodies and Amélia pulled him harder against her lips, pressing their chests together. His fingers found her spine and he trailed it, counting each vertebrae and decorating the path it made through her back. Her tongue brushed his and she gently nipped on his bottom lip.

This new song had a bass and some instrument Spencer had never heard before. He couldn't make sense of the lyrics, since they were all in Portuguese, but it made Amélia hold him even closer to her. They half walked, half tripped to his couch while the chorus brought even more drums. Spencer felt them pulling and almost ripping that knot, that thing that seemed to have always been there, but he never knew about it. Amélia's fingers went from his hair to his arms and then she was trailing them along the sides of his chest. He gasped against her mouth when she pulled his shirt up just enough to sneak her cool hands under it, letting her short nails lightly scrape against his skin.

"You're doing so well, Spencer," she breathlessly said without stopping to kiss him. "I like this so much. I like you so much."

Spencer gripped at her hip and pressed her harder against the pillows of the couch, feeling the thing inside him unwrap a little and not hurt so much. He trailed kisses on her jaw and, just out of curiosity, decided to catch her earlobe with his lips and graze his teeth on it. Amélia moaned loudly. The song became quicker and quicker, repeating itself with no coherence, almost sexually, and Amélia trailed her hands further up his back, caressing and scratching. She was almost lying down now and Spencer found out that kissing her ear could be as good as her mouth. Perhaps even better.

She opened her legs so he could crawl between them, pressing his body over her, and her dress pooled high on her thighs. Spencer trailed his hand down from her hips to her legs and he felt the small section of her naked skin over her thigh-high socks. He gripped her leg, massaged it, feeling the firmness of her muscles against his fingers.

_Woke up this morning_

_Singing an old, old Beatles song_

_We're not that strong, my lord_

_You know we ain't that strong_

Amélia gasped. One of her hands went to the hairs at his nape again and she pulled him away from her ear, biting his neck. Not enough to break the skin or to bruise, but he felt the pain send a jolt of pleasure through his body and it was his turn to moan. Amélia kissed the bite and traveled up to his mouth again.

Spencer pushed her dress even higher on her legs, marvelling with every new inch of skin he could feel, until he reached the lace of her panties. This made him freeze.

_I hear my voice among others_

_In the break of day_

_Hey, brothers, say, brothers_

_It's a long, a long, a long, a long_

He could feel the erection in his pants pressing his dick against his fly and Amélia… This was… It was great. He wanted this. He wanted her. But the fear. The fear of not being as good. The fear of disappointing her. It creeped again and the thing in his chest spread a cold feeling through his limbs.

"Do you want to take a break?" She brushed his bangs away from his eyes and there was the ghost of a smile on her bruised lips.

"I'm sorry..." He started saying, but Amélia placed a finger over his lips.

"Anything you want, Spencer. Ask and it's yours. A girl, a wolf, or none at all, remember?"

He propped himself on one of his arms, not really moving away from her, and his other hand went to her face, caressing her. Her eyes fluttered close, happy, and her hand travelled to his heart, her fingers tapping over it to the rhythm of the song.

_A long, a long, a long way_

_It's a long way, it's a long_

_It's a long, a long, a long_

_It's a long, a lo-long, a lo-long, a long, a long, a long_

_It's a long, a long_

_It's a long, a lo-long, a lo-long, a lo-long, a long_

_A long, a long, it's a long, it's a long way_

_It's a long, a long, a long, it's a a long way_

"I want _you_ ," he finally managed to say.

Amélia's smile got bigger against his palm.

"Here you have me," she whispered.

Spencer kissed her again, slower at first, still caressing her jaw. His fingers danced over her neck and collarbone, and then he dared to palm her small breast. Laying on her back, Amélia's chest was almost flat. Spencer could feel her pebbled nipple through the layers of fabric.

"Is this ok?" He asked, not knowing exactly why, letting his forehead rest against hers.

"Y-yes," she gasped, running her nails on his scalp. "This is very good. You're..." he rolled her nipple between his fingers, experimentally, Amélia whimpered and clutched tighter on his hair. "You're really good to me, Spencer."

He kissed her deeply, wishing he could drink her words. Amélia's legs were restless on the couch, but her hips stayed glued to the seat. She fisted his shirt and kissed him ferociously, as if she was trying to channel all her desire to the places she knew she could.

_Ozóio' da cobra verde_

_Hoje foi que arreparei_

_Se arreparasse há mais tempo_

_Não amava quem amei [4]_

"I want to touch you," he said, surprising himself.

"Please, please, touch me." She lightly bit his jaw and his chin before kissing him again. "Please, Spencer, I want it so much."

He stopped kissing her for a moment and studied her face, suddenly realizing something.

"Keep talking to me." It was a plea disguised as a command. His hand wandered back to her leg, toying with the garter belt that held her socks in place.

She opened her eyes, her dilated pupils invited him to drown in the depths of her abyss.

"Touch me," she said, firm. "Make me feel good." He felt the lace of her panties again and broke eye contact, closing his eyes and focusing on the soft feeling of her skin. He began just toying with her elastic waistband and touching the skin of her hips and crotch. "Only you, Spencer. I only want you."

The chorus came back as Spencer got to her sex, and Caetano sung about the _long, long, long, long way_ , as Spencer felt the soft and short hairs that covered her mons and labia majora. Spencer sat back on his heels and pushed her dress to her stomach, getting it out of the way. Her socks were white, as were her garter belt and her lingerie. Her panties were entirely made of lace.

"I dressed to see you," she said, propping herself up on her elbows.

Spencer licked his lips. His mind was blank for a moment.

"I wasn't sure how far you would want to take things today, but a girl can hope." He looked up at her again and there it was, the dangerous wolfish smile that made him not even hesitate to risk everything.

He ran his finger through her slit, slightly parting it and feeling her wetness and the slippery touch of her labia minora. Amélia threw her head back and opened her legs even wider, resting one foot on his shoulder. Her chest was heavily rising and falling.

_A água com areia_

_Brinca na beira do mar_

_A água passa, a areia fica no lugar [5]_

She was warm there, incredibly warm. He used his fingers to spread her outer labia even more, exposing her inner folds and her clitoris. Her labia was darker than her skin and her clitoris peaked out of her. Spencer touched it lightly, running his index finger from the apex of her labia to its glans peeking out of its small hood. She trembled with his touch.

"Yes, very good… Very good job, Spencer," she echoed the words she had said to him when they first ate together. "I can't wait to see… Ah..." He slid his finger to the opening of her vagina, teasing over it in a slow circular motion, without pressing against her. Slick trickled out of her and he spread it through her labia. "What you will do next," she finally managed to get the last part out.

He adjusted himself on his heels. He was getting more aroused too. This wasn't a mere experiment.

Amélia semi-sat on the couch again, her cheeks were flushed. Considering that her foot remained on Spencer's shoulder, she was very flexible.

"Can we… Can we go to your bed?" She asked. He removed his hand from her, feeling his stomach drop.

"Amélia, I..."

"It's not that I'm not enjoying myself and this whole 'let's roleplay like we were regular high schoolers,' I am. It's just that we are not teenagers and your couch will ruin my back." Her head was resting on her shoulder as she spoke, her curls were a cloud of messy hair framing her face.

He cleaned his fingers on his pants. There was a new song playing, slower, sadder. Amélia rested her foot on the couch and adjusted her clothes.

"What's wrong?" She asked, looking worried. Perhaps a bit frustrated too. "Do you want to stop? I thought you were enjoying it..."

"I was. I am. I just… I don't know if I want to have sex today," he blurted out.

She laughed.

"What's funny?" He asked, hurt.

"Spencer, I'm sorry, I'm… It's not, it's not funny. It's just that, well, we _were_ having sex." She rested her hand over the one he was using to masturbate her.

"What?" He asked, frowning.

"There's a lesbian saying that goes like this: 'sex is everything that happens after you take your cats out of the bedroom,'" she said, simply. He didn't understand it. "Although there are no pets here, the point still stands. Sex is everything sensual happening between two consenting adults. The lines are kind of blurry with sensual dancing and texting and all, but fingering someone most definitely is sex."

"Oh," he said. And then it hit him. " _Oh_."

"Oh," as in: all this time he had been taught to put a lot of weight and expectation into one part of sex, when it wasn't the whole picture. As in: how bizarre it was that the men who touched him before and even his boyfriend didn't tell him that. He had to learn it from Amélia, a woman. A very, _very_ , openly queer woman who approached sex from the perspective of pleasing other women.

"I mean, if you really want to stop, do something else, or just keep making out on the couch and forget about our genitals, I'm game too, Spencer. I'm not trying to trick you or pressure you into anything; I just think that your bed is going to be more comfortable for whatever we decide to do tonight."

He looked at her small hand over his. And at her beautiful face. And then Spencer started laughing.

"Share the joke with me!" Amélia demanded, sitting closer to him and pressing their legs together.

Spencer held her face with his hands and planted a kiss on her lips. Amélia embraced him hard, pulling him by his shirt and hair.

"It's just that… I might like this."

"Kissing me? Is the jury still out on this?" She asked in a joking tone.

Spencer kissed her quickly again.

"Sex," he answered. In the background, the record had come to its end.

***

Not that Mia ever doubted the powers of Caetano, but Spencer's intense interest in exploring their physical relationship was a welcome surprise. They were still learning each other and, even though Amélia had only had sex with four or five people in her life, she was clearly the person more comfortable in this scenario.

"I have news to tell you," she said, as they walked to his bedroom.

His hand got slightly more tense around hers and Mia wondered why.

"I'm all ears," he answered, casually.

Mia spun on her heels and turned to look at him when they got to his bed, letting her hands trail along the collar of his shirt.

"Georgetown hired me as an Associate Professor." Saying this still sounded like a lucid dream that filled her with almost unbearable joy.

His face lit up when he heard her words and he lifted her up by her waist, immediately losing his balance and falling over the bed.

"Amélia, this is huge! How could you have not opened with this?!" He was half annoyed and half laughing, lying on his side and looking at her, with an arm slouched over her stomach.

Mia giggled like a teenager.

"I was trying to get in your pants!" She said, still laughing.

Spencer pulled her closer, crowding her on the bed with his arms, and his overgrown hair brushed Mia's nose when he dived in to kiss her jaw.

"You need to learn more about profiling then, _Professor_ ," he huffed against the shell of her ear before kissing her pulsepoint there.

Mia let out a small moan and embraced him tighter, crossing her ankles on his waist.

"Do you..." she started saying while his idle hands navigated south on her body again. "Have the hots for being the teacher's pet, dottore?"

He kissed his way down to her sternum and looked up at her, almost innocently, with his chin resting on her stomach.

"Am I the teacher's pet?" He asked, with a glint of mischief on his eyes.

Mia felt lightheaded.

"Yes," she breathed out. Spencer resumed kissing her belly as his hands raised the skirt of her dress to her waist. "O meu… O meu favorito. Meu galeguinho. [6]"

Mia's dress was pooling over her stomach and she could feel her pants getting wetter as he rubbed his hands over her thighs. Spencer kissed her belly button tentatively, almost intrigued.

"Is that good?" He asked her, and his voice was muffled against her skin.

"Yes. Very good. Keep kissing me and I'll give you an A+, Spencer."

He laughed softly again.

"Should I be worried that you exchange grades for sexual favors?"

Mia pulled him by his hair, forcing him to look at her.

"Only you," she said, very seriously. "You're my only pet."

His eyes closed and, as he leaned in against her arm, his hands gripped her thighs harder.

"And what do you want of your pet, Professor?"

Mia licked her lips and let her bottom lip get caught on her teeth, considering what she could ask.

"Do you want to please me, pet?" She asked, hoping that her voice was in the right tone and mood.

Spencer looked at her through his lashes and a blush raised to his cheeks. Mia was still holding him by his hairs, although her fingers were more relaxed.

"More than anything," he whispered.

"Take off my pants, then. Pick up from where you left in the living room and don't you dare to stop until I come."

To her relief, his breath got quicker and his pupils dilated to her command. While Spencer fumbled with her garter belt and stripped her of her lingerie, still leaving her high socks in place, Mia took off her dress and carelessly tossed it across the room. He stopped for a moment, his hands holding her knees in place, her feet planted on the bed on either side of his legs, and just looked at her nakedness. He seemed to be mentally doing equations.

"What materials am I supposed to use for this assignment, Professor?" His face was even redder, but his eyes looked hungry.

Mia swallowed. Did he want verbal reassurance all along the way? And why did this make her feel so _powerful_?

"You have such pretty lips, Spencer, do you think you would like to kiss my pussy with them?"

"Yes."

His voice was self assured before he pushed her knees down on the bed and dived in to lick a stripe on her sex. Mia sighed loudly and decided it was time for her lacy bra to go too. After a small fight with the clasps, she was free from it and could just lay down and enjoy herself.

"The taste is..." He raised his head to look at her. "Not what I was expecting."

"And this is good or bad?" Mia asked, worried.

Spencer smiled shyly and let his fingers run over her folds, separating them like he had done earlier.

"Good," he finally said.

Mia then propped one of her feet on his shoulder and pushed him down.

"Excellent. In that case, I remember giving you specific instructions of not stopping until I had an orgasm."

As an answer, Spencer pushed his middle finger inside her, slowly but surely, and lowered his head again to lap at her folds. He compensated for his lack of experience with an abundance of interest, licking and sucking at her inner folds and kissing her as thoroughly as he had kissed her mouth.

"Use your finger," Mia commanded, sliding her foot down his back and pulling him closer with her leg. "Also, you can kiss me harder," she put her hands on his beautiful hair again, pressing his face against her. Spencer started pumping his finger as she told him to do and Mia moaned loudly. "Crook it. There's a rugged place just under the cl… Ah… Ah, like that. Like that. So good, you're very good, my pet. Meu galego."

He licked her clit and Mia wailed weakly. It had been a long while for her too, and her body was already tingling from being touched and cherished like that.

"More. More like that." He listened to her voice and licked at her clit again, still rubbing his finger on her G-spot. "Quicker. Lick me quicker. Yes, yes. Such a good student. You learn so… Sooo fast… Ah, harder. Finger harder. Ahh…"

One of Mia's hands let go of Spencer's hair and she sought for his left hand, which had an iron grip on her hip. As her toes curled and he licked her even faster, encouraged by her increasingly incoherent words of praise and the sounds Mia made, she wrapped her fingers around his. She wanted to hold his hand during this. For him, for her, for grounding.

"Meu… Meu… Meu… Meu…" She muttered like a mantra, gripping his hair and his fingers with all of her strength.

It hit her like a shock wave and she was suddenly unable to produce any more sounds. Spencer kept going until she pulled his face away from her and closed her legs, feeling overstimulated. He crawled on the bed and held her back against his chest. Mia felt her whole body humming in pleasure when she rested her head on his left arm. He took her right hand in his and gently kissed the back of her palm before resting his head on top of hers.

"How are you feeling?" She asked him.

His left hand went to her hair and he started to idly run his fingers on her scalp.

"Fine." They stayed in silence for a moment. "Better than fine. This was… I really like this."

"Holding me?" She asked, almost dozing off.

He kissed her shoulder.

"Having sex with you."

She entangled her fingers on his and it was her turn to kiss his hand, but Mia took her time to kiss each of his knuckles individually.

"It was good, wasn't it?" She asked, hoping that her voice conveyed all the affection she felt blooming in her chest. "You were very good."

He chuckled.

"Not very good. Not yet, at least."

She rolled to face him and let her leg rest on his still clothed hip. Her fingers brushed his bangs away from his face, gently.

"Stop being such a perfectionist overachiever all the time, Spencer. This is excellent, great, A+."

His hands danced on her ribcage for a moment and he didn't meet her eyes.

"I didn't know you had tattoos." He said, running his fingers over the inked letters under her left breast.

"You've never seen me naked before," she said, laughing.

"What does this one say?"

"'A minha pátria é como se não fosse, é íntima doçura'. It's the first line in the poem 'Pátria Minha', by Vinicius de Moraes."

"You know I don't speak Portuguese," his eyes were still intensely focused on her breast and the lines under it.

"It's as if my homeland didn't exist, it's an intimate tenderness," she roughly translated to him.

His fingers stopped moving for a moment and he leaned in to kiss it. Mia gasped when he travelled up, to the sensitive skin of her breast, and then her nipple. He approached it as he had done with her clit, at first.

"Slower..." She instructed him. "More like a deep kiss… More lips."

He listened to her and rhythmically caressed her nipple again and again with his flattened tongue. His hands pressed and massaged the muscles of her back and Mia embraced his head and shoulders. This was different than before. An intimate tenderness.

The tip of his fingers got to the roots of the tree that partially occupied her back. He followed its silhouette, as the blind do to feel a work of art, and his mouth let go of her breast so he could flip her and gain access to her back.

"And this one?" He asked, kissing the highest leaf of the tree, right between her shoulder blades.

"It's a yellow ipê. The Brazilian cherry tree, as it's known, although no cherries come from its bloom. It's..." He kissed and licked each part of the plant, like he could remove the watercolor from her skin.

Or mark it as his.

Amélia never thought she could get so aroused from kisses on her spine. The roots ended just above her waist, where her garter belt still pressed against her skin. Spencer removed it from her.

"Is this all or do you have more?"

He kissed a small mole Amélia had on her hip and his fingers kneaded the muscles of her ass.

"Aren't you the detective here?" She sassed him back.

He pulled her right sock down and let out a small sound of glee when he found the almost orange poppy on her calf.

"Luck or method?" Mia asked, intrigued, while he traced the lines of her flower with his fingers.

"I don't believe in luck," Spencer chuckled. "No, you had one tattoo on your left chest and another in the middle of your back. I inferred that, if you had another, it would be on your right side. It's like you do with the decor of your room, you like things to be slightly off symmetry, but balanced out."

Mia rolled on the bed to face him, not even bothering to hide her goofy smile.

"And you don't need to ask what this one means?" She propped her elbow on the bed and rested her head on her hand, feeling emboldened by her nakedness.

"The tree on your back is Brazil's national tree. The poem line talks about the homeland you don't have. So, this poppy is for California, right? For your teen years in San Francisco."

"Yes."

"And DC, do you ever think about marking it on your skin?"

"DC is a barely closed wound on my face, Spencer."

She sat on the bed and kissed him to brush off the tears she felt prickling in the corners of her eyes.

"I need to tell you something too," he said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I have been putting it off because I'm sure you will..."

Mia kissed his cheek.

"You're a profiler, not a mind reader, Spencer."

"The US Attorney decided to indict Marino and the Director ordered my team to consider the case closed." His hands held her by her shoulders, pushing her away from him. "I'm sorry, Amélia, I'll understand if you hate me."

"I knew it already."

"What?" He raised his head to look at her.

"Agent Prentiss called me personally this afternoon and I already got an email from Ishaan about this too," she said, shrugging.

He seemed confused.

"And you came here?"

"... Yes?"

"But… I couldn't catch her murderer. I couldn't do the right thing, as I told you I would."

"You told me you cared, Spencer, not that you would close the case. I always knew this would be a slim chance and, well, it's not like I had that much faith in the FBI for starters."

And, by December, she would have the resources to finish what Charlotte started. She could hire people who had no political interests in their way and, later, people who would have no moral conundrums in guaranteeing that whoever killed Charlotte wouldn't be able to hurt anyone else ever again. But she definitely wouldn't say the last part out loud to her favorite FBI agent.

Spencer still had a crease between his eyebrows and Amélia kissed it, gently.

"I don't blame you," she whispered, her lips still pressed against his forehead. She was on her knees on the bed, wearing just her left sock, and embracing him against her chest, still fully clothed. "You're still my pet. My favorite one. Meu galego."

He let out a sigh and embraced her back, almost crushing her.

"Don't give up on me," he whispered.

"I'm here. I'm with you, all in, if you want me too."

He looked up at her.

"I will keep investigating it, Amélia. I will never stop looking for him not only for you, but because I know he won't stop either," he vowed.

"I know." She kissed him, soft and tender. "I will be here with you, Spencer, for the long run. You just need to let me in."

He let go of her and took off his shirt, letting it fall on the bed. Her chest was very pale, his nipples were almost translucent under the amber light of the bedroom. He had no visible tattoos, but there was a bullet scar on his left arm. Mia sat on his lap and kissed his scar. They kissed and caressed each other like that for a while. She found out he had a birthmark on his stomach and his nipples were sensitive to the touch. She pushed him down on his back on the bed, so she could better kiss and touch his torso.

"Is this good?" It was her turn to ask.

"Yes."

"Do you want to keep your pants on?"

She licked one of his nipples and he gasped, his hands were holding her shoulders.

"I don't… I don't know."

"Ok."

She kept paying attention to the nipple in front of her and softly blew on it after it was wet. Spencer sighed. Mia switched her attention to his collarbone, kissing and nipping at it.

"Can I bite you?"

"Bite me?"

"Yes. I like biting," she looked into his eyes. "I can not do it, if you don't like feeling pain."

His chest got flushed and his heartbeat got faster.

"I… kind of like pain. Not a lot. But a bit."

She smiled at him.

"I like it too." She bit his right bicep, strong enough to mark him. Spencer yelped, and Mia sucked and licked at the bite, peppering it with kisses. "Thank you, thank you. You're so good to me," she whispered.

He pulled her by her nape to the level of his face and kissed her, deep, passionately licking her tongue with his. One of his large hands held her face and the other rested at the center of her back, by the roots of her tree.

"I trust you," he said.

"I trust you too."

He took one of her hands in his and guided her to his fly. Mia opened it while they kissed. Her hands brushed on his half-hard dick, but he hadn't authorized her to touch him there yet, so she just focused on helping him undress. To her surprise, his hands lowered his boxers with his jeans. Mia kissed his pulsepoint on his neck and gently scratched her nails over his torso. Spencer pulled her hair by the nape and rested his forehead against hers, exhaling a shaky breath.

"Spencer," she called him.

"Yes?"

"This isn't a river we need to cross. This is a lake. We are just floating on a lake, together, in the summer. The margins are not the point, the water is."

He chuckled and kissed her once more.

"Sometimes it was almost good, before. But always felt like a race," he whispered against her temple.

Mia was partially laying over his body, her clothed leg propped across his hips. She could feel his sex, if she wanted to, but she would only do it if that was what he wanted too.

"It's not a race," she whispered back. "Where we are, what we are doing, is amazing already. This is sex."

"Touch me," he asked, and she sneaked her hand down to cup him.

His cock was heavy, long, and uncut. She pumped it experimentally, looking at his face while she did it, and she felt it stir in her hand. Spencer breathed through his teeth and closed his eyes.

"How are you feeling?" She asked him.

"Weird," he answered, with his brow furrowed in concentration.

Mia stopped her movements.

"Good weird or bad weird?"

"I don't know. Can you kiss me?"

She let go of his cock and kissed him again, slowly. He pulled her by her thighs so she would sit on his lower stomach. After a few moments, Mia felt his cock, fully erect, pressing against her ass. She wiggled a bit, temptatively. He gasped and his grip on her thighs got harder.

"Don't stop," he muttered against her lips. "This… this is really good."

This was a dangerous game, she knew it. She had no IUD, she wasn't on the pill, and they weren't using condoms. But she didn't want to stop, she didn't want to say no to him now. And she was liking it, a lot. So she did the totally irresponsible thing of rubbing her wet pussy against his cock and deftly switching the angles so his glans could rub her clit. Spencer moaned and bit her lower lip, before pulling her hair back and kissing and licking the fading bruises on her throat. Mia kept moving, entranced by the wet sounds they made, only half paying attention so he wouldn't accidentally penetrate her. She buried her fingernails in his shoulders, feeling her second orgasm approaching her in the middle of the trance she entered at the needy sounds Spencer made.

As she felt her body warm and cold at the same time and wailed as her orgasm teared her apart, she felt Spencer slipping inside her. She had never done it without protection and the feeling of his warm skin thrusting against her inner walls in the middle of an orgasm made another one follow suit and she seated on him, fully knowing that she shouldn't. His hips stuttered against her a few times while he held her in place with an iron grip on her hips. He bit her shoulder and Mia clenched her cunt instinctively.

She then realized he had come inside her and now he was crying in her arms.

"Spencer, Spencer, what's wrong?" She couldn't disentangle herself from him because he was still holding her tight, now embracing her completely and weeping on her chest like a little boy. She kissed his hair and tried to hold him as best as she could. "What's wrong, meu bem? What's wrong?"

He shook his head, but said nothing. She was completely wet from him. Her chest with his tears, her thighs with his semen.

"Please, talk to me. Did I hurt you? Did you want to stop and I didn't realize it? Please, my pet." She was almost crying too, her post-orgasm relaxation disappearing with the dread that took hold of her.

"It's too soon, it's too much," he finally said.

"What, Spencer? What happened?"

"I feel like I'm drowning. I like you too much, like my chest could burst." He kept sobbing against her chest, still holding her tight. "I'm sorry, you don't want this. I ruined this."

She let out a sigh of relief and started to cry too. Mia tilted his head up to look at his face and wiped the tears streaking down his cheeks.

"That's all? You scared me," she whispered against his forehead and kissed him there. "I made a whole grand gesture and professed my feelings a week ago, when we hadn’t even kissed, Spencer." She kissed his eyebrow. "Don't worry, I have big, all consuming, feelings too. You're not alone, you don't scare me." And the other one. "You're not drowning. We are swimming together in a lake, remember? It's summer. I'm all in, if you want me too."

She kissed his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation Notes:
> 
> [1] Doctor, I want to kiss you. Meet me at your place in an hour?
> 
> [2] I was born in Bahia, from a domestic slave with an overseer  
> My father slept on the bed,  
> My mom on the rug  
> Laia, ladaia, sabatana, Holy Mary
> 
> [3] Me, you, the two of us, we share a past already, my love  
> A guitar put away, that flower  
> And several other things
> 
> [4] (in coloquial Portuguese)  
> The green snake's eyes  
> I noticed them today  
> If I had noticed them before  
> I wouldn't have fallen in love with this person
> 
> [5] The water and the sand  
> Play by the ocean shore  
> The water goes, the sand stays in place
> 
> [6] My... My favorite. My little fair haired one. // In Portuguese, ending words in "inho" (m) or "inha" (f), the diminutive, means being endeared (or sarcastic. Depends on the context)
> 
> //
> 
> To listen to [Transa](https://open.spotify.com/album/4NIGwEvudtT3KZrYPymOmz?si=1AD8KJytSCqIZ6pe4MDLGQ), to read ["Pátria Minha"](https://vermelho.org.br/2011/09/08/vinicius-de-moraes-patria-minha/), the poem mentioned. This poem also has [a partially spoken](https://open.spotify.com/track/4hdaQWCLTpTdik8IyLzd1z) version by Maria Bethânia, who, incidentally, is Caetano Veloso's sister.


	15. An enchanted spindle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wind stopped blowing, and outside the castle not a leaf was stirring in the trees.  
> Round about the castle a thorn hedge began to grow, and every year it became higher, until it finally surrounded and covered the entire castle. Finally nothing at all could be seen of it, not even the flag on the roof.

Mia woke up nestled in Spencer's arms on Friday. They had taken a shower and she took her contacts out before sleeping, after he managed to stop crying. She slept with his sweater from the University of Nevada, which was now too small for him, but fitted her just right. He wore a simple white t-shirt and flannel pants with math equations printed all over it. He had held her or touched her all night, as if he was afraid she might slip away through his fingers.

She had no intention of going anywhere without him.

Mia reached for her glasses on the bedside table and decided to use this opportunity to observe him in his sleep. His relaxed face made him look younger, impossibly younger. The faint sunlight creeping through the curtains wasn't enough to make his hair shine like honey, but it let her see the colors in his face, the rise and fall of his chest. She should let him sleep more, but she also had to wake him up.

She kissed his cheekbone.

"Bom dia, flor do dia, [1]" she whispered in his ear.

Spencer stirred in his sleep and embraced her, rolling on his side and taking Mia with him.

"No. No. Day off. Sleep more," he mumbled without opening his eyes.

Mia giggled.

"I'm sorry, meu dengo [2], but we have something time-sensitive to do and I already postponed it yesterday because we were both really tired."

He groaned against her neck.

"What could be so urgent?"

"A trip to Planned Parenthood," she answered, and as predicted, he went very still against her. "We did something very risky last night and I'm not in the mood for having any surprises a few weeks from now, so, time-sensitive appointment. And we both need to get tested."

"Could you have something?" He asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but failing.

"I don't know. The last time I got tested was over a year ago and sometimes we get false negatives or are unknowingly exposed to infections, and we both did a very risky thing on the first time we had penetrative sex, so neither of us should rely just on the trust of the word of the other on 'never doing this' or anything." She rolled on the bed to look at him. "Although, I literally had never done this with, you know, someone with a penis."

He blushed and averted his eyes.

"...I have," he confessed. "My first girlfriend wasn't a fan of condoms and my ex boyfriend and I did it a couple of times during our relationship. But I got tested after we broke up and it was negative. I got vaccinated for HPV a few years ago and I have to get annual check-ups for the Bureau. My tests always come back negative."

"Ok," she said, smiling. "Let's hope all of our tests come back negative this time too."

"I'm sorry," he said, with his gaze still focused on the wall behind her.

"For what?" Mia asked.

"For yesterday. You know, coming inside you and everything."

"Spencer, I'm a big girl, who was very sober when this happened, and I took a calculated risk. As you did too, I hope."

"I didn't think. I was, hm… very absorbed by the whole thing."

"Do you regret it?" She asked, feeling a pang in her chest.

Spencer rolled on his back and hid his face behind his hands, groaning.

"No. I'm horrible, I know."

Mia laughed and sat on his lap, very aware that she was naked from the waist down.

"I guess we are both horrible people, then, for not regretting having consensual sex with our adult partners." He didn't react to her stupid preachy joke and Mia tried to pull his hands away from his face. "Come ooooon, Spencer, everything is fine. I want us to get tested because I care about us and because I have done a lot of HIV prevention grassroots activism with undocumented immigrants all these years. I already am the hypocrite anarchist dating an agent of the police state, I don't want to be the girl who isn't smart because her boyfriend told her not to worry."

This made him look at her. He was adorably blushing.

"Am I your boyfriend?" He asked, boyishly.

She hovered over him, planting her hands on each side of his face, feeling as if she could burst with endearment.

"Oh, is this a big deal for you? You want to do the whole dance for a couple of months until one of our friends pressure us into defining our relationship because we're too cool for school? Or you want me to take you to a nice dinner with flowers and formally ask if you want to be my boyfriend?"

He laughed and pulled her in to kiss her.

"I mean, just checking up with me would be a nice touch," he said, pushing her hair out of her face and adjusting her crooked glasses.

Mia did a very serious face and a solemn voice:

"Doctor Spencer Reid, would you like to be my boyfriend?"

He scratched his chin dramatically and looked at the ceiling for a moment.

"Oh, jeez, I don't know. You will have to let me think about it."

"Spencer!" Mia batted his hand out of his chin, exaggerating her shock. "You don't let a woman say all the things I've said to you in the past week, ask her to be with you for the long run, and then have to think about..."

He kissed her, cutting her sentence short. 

"It would be my honor, Doctor Amélia Ferreira, to be your boyfriend," Spencer said against her lips.

***

Even though Spencer had a primary care physician, he scheduled an appointment at Planned Parenthood with Amélia, because he didn't want her to go alone to hers. She was on Medicaid, living the full irony of being one month away from having the insurance Georgetown provided to its employees and two months away from being rich enough to fund a hospital, if she wanted to. But, for the moment, she was homeless and broke.

They had decided to wait a few weeks before making their relationship public, due to the trouble he could face in his career if something went wrong with Marino's deal or the case was suddenly reopened for any other reason. Such as the real killer striking again, like Spencer believed he would. If killing Charlotte hadn't triggered him to escalate and lose control in the next month or so, then certainly when his six month window came to a close. He didn't say it out loud to Amélia, but she understood it perfectly.

It was strange to walk beside her on the street and stand by her side on the subway and not be able to touch her, when he could still feel the imprints of her body on his hands from earlier that morning. Amélia was wearing the same clothes as the night before; in her backpack, she had only brought a few personal items and another pair of panties. Spencer really liked the whole bohemian chic, Sociology Professor vibe she had going on with that dress, her boots, and her cape-like coat. He liked her round glasses and her messy bun, with the little curls that escaped it and framed her face, her smell, her smile. She was his kindred spirit, his secret girlfriend, the forbidden fruit he chose to bite.

Under all their clothes, he had a bruise on his bicep and she had one on her shoulder, each shaped like the others' teeth.

He couldn't remember the last time he had been in a Planned Parenthood clinic, but Amélia even knew the protestors outside.

"What's up, Karen, still haven't found anything better to do with your time?" She asked one of them, who was holding a large sign with an anatomically incorrect fetus displayed under the words Abortion Is Murder.

"I pray every night for your damned soul, Doctor Herrera!" The woman screamed at her as they passed.

Amélia ignored her and buzzed the intercom beside the bulletproof glass doors of the clinic, saying her name and appointment, before being allowed inside.

"¡Hola, Amélia!" The receptionist gleefully greeted her. "Que bueno verte. ¿Dónde está la chica de hoy?"

Her skin was the same color as Amélia's, but she looked shorter and rounder. Lidia, as her name tag read, appeared to be in her twenties and there was something in the way she spoke and moved her hands that made him think of Penelope.

"Hola, Lidia, ¿está bien? Hoy la consulta es para mi." [3] She took her insurance card and her Green Card from her pocket and put it on the counter in front of Lidia.

They chatted in Spanish for a few seconds until Spencer heard Amélia say his name and the word "amigo" and Lidia was looking at him and smiling.

"It's really nice to meet you, Doctor Reid. I understand you have an appointment here as well?" Lidia spoke in flawless English.

"Ah, yes. Nice to meet you too, Lidia," he placed his insurance card and his driver's licence on the counter beside Amélia's. "I have an appointment at 10 o'clock, I believe."

"The care provider will see you in just a moment. Meanwhile, you both can fill out this quick paperwork here to better help their work." Lidia placed two sheets of paper in front of them and turned to Amélia again. "¡Ay, chica, qué hermoso es tu _amigo_!" [4]

Amélia chuckled and agreed with her while she wrote down her answers on her paper.

The waiting room on that October morning had a Black pregnant woman playing with her toddler in a corner; an elderly white man flipping through old magazines; a white woman in her forties looking very anxious; a couple of teen Latina girls chatting in hushed voices; and a seemingly bored Black teenage boy very focused on his phone.

"What did the receptionist mean when she asked you about 'today's girl'?" Spencer asked, as they sat on two vacant chairs beside the elderly man reading magazines.

Amélia smoothed the creases on her coat, now folded on her lap, and turned to look at him.

"Ah, it's nothing. It's just that the reason why I always come to this clinic is because it's safe."

"With several different girls?" He insisted.

"Yes, with girls and boys and people who have no one else or need an interpreter." She didn't meet his eyes when she spoke, looking firmly ahead.

"What do you mean by 'safe'?"

"Spencer, can we agree that I won't ask hard questions about your work and you won't ask them about mine?"

The staff didn't ask many questions about people's legal status in that clinic, that was probably what she couldn't say out loud to him. They waited in silence for about fifteen minutes until Amélia was called for her appointment.

Spencer was checking his texts when they called his name.

The office was on the second floor. Small and clean, it had a desk, a hospital bed surrounded by curtains, and a tinted window that allowed the sight of a parking lot.

"Good morning, Spencer. Can I call you Spencer?" The nurse was a Black man in his late fifties, with a strong Maryland accent shaping his words. Spencer absent-mindely nodded as he sat in the chair across the nurse's. "I'm nurse Jones and I will be your healthcare provider this morning."

"Good morning, nurse Jones, nice to meet you today."

"Now, your paperwork tells me you had an unsafe relationship last night and you want to get screen-tested for Sexually Transmitted Infections? I must inform you that your results will be ready in two to ten business days and, if you are worried about having contracted anything from this encounter, we should schedule a follow-up appointment for you here in six months due to the window of immunological response to most infections. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I… I have been tested in February with my annual check-ups, it's a work thing, and everything came back negative. But my partner... She wants us to share test results." He didn't like medical appointments and sharing these intimate things with a complete stranger was, to say the very least, a weird experience.

"Oh, you're in a committed relationship?" The nurse raised his eyebrows. "Have you two discussed what kind of protection you are going to be using from now on?"

"Huh… Condoms, I guess?"

"Condoms are the most effective barrier method of preventing STIs, if they're used every time and correctly."

"I am aware."

"Is there a possibility that your partner could be HIV positive?"

Spencer frowned, thinking.

"I mean, statistically speaking, it's highly unlikely that she could have HIV, although we can never be sure, right?"

Nurse Jones nodded, typing on his desk computer.

"If you want, I can prescribe you post-exposure prophylaxis to lower the chances of you being infected with HIV. It's not a one time drug, you will need to take it two times a day for 28 days, no skipping, and you can feel tired, dizzy, or have stomach aches during the treatment. It's up to your discretion to take it or not."

Spencer did the math in his head. It would be stupid of him to pretend that he didn't had access to everything Penelope found about Amélia’s life during their investigation. Unlike him, she had no history of using injectable drugs; and, according to her, it had been years since she had penetrative sex with someone who had a penis, and she always used condoms. He was doing this to ease her mind, but he had little doubt that they would get out of this unscathed.

"No, thank you, I'll just want the tests, please."

"I'll also prescribe you a one-time use of a broad spectrum of preventive antibiotics, since it's the procedure for these situations."

"Sure."

"Ok, then. Please, sit on the hospital bed and roll up your sleeve for me while I fetch the disposable syringe, please."

***

"Hey, Jane, what's up?" Mia greeted her usual doctor, opening her office door. 

Doctor Jane Scott was in her forties. She was a white woman, born and raised in Texas, who worked and lived in DC since the early 2000s. Not only she was Mia's personal OB-Gyn, she was also the go-to Doctor for the undocumented and scared people No Borders helped. Mia prayed that the IRS never looked too closely at her receipts because Jane had, more than once, written real prescriptions and receipts under false names to protect her real patients. Daniel, for instance, had officially been treated four times for syphilis only that year, even though he had never even contracted it.

"Amélia, dear, I wasn't expecting to see you personally until your yearly check-up, in… May next year? Your paperwork says you had unsafe sex last night. Is everything alright?"

Mia let out a sigh and sat on the chair across from Jane's.

"It's not a big deal. Just that same old story. Usually responsible person finds a new partner and in the heat of the moment, makes the irresponsible choice of not stopping to get one of the condoms she has in her purse."

"I see. Is your new partner a nice person?" Jane gently asked, looking away from her computer screen to look at Mia's face.

"He's great. In fact, he also came here today and he's getting tested."

"Oh, you want to get tested besides the emergency contraceptive? Do you think he might have something?"

"Come on, Jane, you and I know that's HMO recommendation to fight AIDS. If you have unprotected sex, get tested."

"Will you want to take the PEP too, then?"

"I'll buy the fast test at the drugstore for us and, if he gets a positive, I’ll call back here today to start it," Mia said, after considering the matter for a bit.

"And, besides the emergency contraceptive, what is your long-term plan? Are you going on the pill?"

"No fucking way. The last time I took it, my body went insane with the side effects. No, thank you. I was thinking of, besides behaving like a responsible adult and using the condoms I already have, scheduling with you to insert an IUD in a month or so."

"Why not next week? With Medicaid, you won't pay a thing for it."

"Georgetown hired me as an Associate Professor; I was hoping to make good use of their better insurance and better paycheck and get a Mirena. I heard that it has the smallest hormonal dosage possible, but also makes your periods stop for seven years? Is it true?"

"For approximately 90% of the people who have it inserted, yes. But even for the ones who don't experience a complete stop in their blood flow, the Mirena will make your endometrium get slimmer, thus, diminishing your flow."

"Sounds perfect!"

Jane smiled and opened her planner on the computer.

"It's recommended that you should not be on your period for your appointment because menstrual cramps increase the chance of expelling your IUD. Mirena's contraceptive protection starts seven days after being inserted and you can feel weakness and cramps on the day after your appointment. Please, make sure that someone comes with you to be sure you get home safely."

Mia made the mental note to tell Charlie to clear her schedule for it.

Except that Charlie was dead.

Ok, she could ask someone else. Eleanor, perhaps. If Spencer were in town, maybe he could do it?

Mia cried when the needle entered her arm to draw her blood. More from the intense feeling of grief that took over her completely than from the pain. She realized it was October 23. It had been over five weeks since Charlie died. Over a month. A month and things only got worse and more confusing. She wanted to tell Charlie about Spencer, introduce them, share this part of her life with her.

But she wasn't there anymore. She wasn't anywhere but in the memories that seeped through her fingers. DC was a barely closed wound on her face that tasted like ash and loss.

After Charlie died, Mia noticed that a small and old analog alarm clock, that her mom had given her a long time ago, wasn't working anymore. It was frozen forever with the long arm for the minutes over the seven and the short arm for the hours over the one. It could have stopped in the middle of the day or the night. And Mia kept thinking of that clock, that certainly stopped before Charlie left her, as if it could magically start working again.

If it could magically start working again, Charlie could come back too.

It was insane. It was absolute insanity to create stupid bargains in her mind and refuse to even think about doing something with Charlie's room when she went back to a home where she didn't want to live anymore. Life moved on, like her father always said, even if the ones we love one day leave through the door saying "see you soon" to never come back.

***

When Spencer's appointment ended, Amélia wasn't in the waiting room. Lidia informed him that she had left ten minutes ago and seemed very distracted. Worried, Spencer left the clinic. Beyond the picket line, on the other sidewalk down the street, was a bookstore cafe. If Amélia went to the clinic all the time, there was a good chance she would be a regular patron of them.

The shop was small. It smelled of new and old books, coffee, and tea leaves. A Black woman with golden threads on her long dreadlocks tendered the three tables inside the store. Amélia was sitting at a table in the back, nursing a steamy cup of coffee and what seemed to be a half-eaten apple strudel.

"You scared me," he said, pulling a chair beside her. "You can't ask a guy to be your boyfriend, take him to a Planned Parenthood appointment as your third date, and ditch him there."

She didn't react to his stupid joke. In fact, she didn't even raise her head to look at him.

"Amélia?" He called her and carefully touched her shoulder. The one he had bitten.

She blinked a few times and finally looked at him.

"Spencer?"

Her gaze wandered on the walls around them and she looked at the coffee cup and the saucer in front of her, surprised.

"Were you talking to me?" She asked, as if she had woken up from a dream. Her eyes were red and puffy behind her glasses.

"Are you ok, Amélia?" He was even more worried.

"I don't know."

"Where's your hotel? I'll call a car and take us there so you can rest."

"It's huh… I… There's a key card in my backpack. Where's my backpack?" She looked around, distraught.

"It's in your lap, sweetheart."

"Ah! Yes. Sure. Here. The key card." She slid the plastic square over the table to him and absent mindedly ate a bite of her strudel. "It's… It's so weird. I was talking to Jane about inserting an IUD and then I was here. Did we leave the clinic together?"

Spencer frowned. She was really disoriented.

"No, Amélia, I just found you. I think you should call your therapist, can you do that?"

"I have an appointment on Monday, I don't want to disturb Dr. Beatrice for nothing."

"Amélia, you just had a memory blackout and you are sober. I don't think this qualifies as nothing. Please, call her."

"Fine," she grumbled.

Dr. Beatrice could see her at noon, so Spencer made Amélia finish eating her strudel and drinking her coffee, while he watched her, unable to feel hunger, even if they had skipped breakfast to go to PP. A part of him feared Amélia could be having some sort of psychotic break and he missed the early signs, due to being too wrapped up in the investigation and his feelings.

As he cleaned a bit of sugar from her cheek, he asked himself what he would do if that was the case. He barely knew her, things were too new, too soon for them to even consider this.

_"You've met me in a very strange time in my life"_ , she had told him a week ago, when her voice could barely be heard and a 6 ft 2" man had tried to murder her in her own home. Having a psychotic break wouldn't be unexpected. No one could judge her if Amélia had too much on her plate.

But could he, Spencer, deal with it? Stay by her side and wait to see who would come out of the woods to him? That is, if she ever came out of the woods. His mom never did.

He thought of this, feeling like the worst person in the world, while he waited for her on a couch in her therapist's waiting room. He wanted her. Amélia. All the sass, the dancing, the unending pop culture references he didn't get, the fire in her eyes, the strength in her bones. No, he wasn't leaving until he couldn't stay anymore.

After the customary fifty minutes, she walked out of the room and sat beside him on the couch, embracing his arm and resting her head on his shoulder.

"I entered a brief fugue state," she whispered, even though they were alone. "Dr. Beatrice told me to rest for the weekend and avoid intense emotions. She will talk to my psychiatrist to see if I need to adjust my anxiety meds."

He kissed the top of her head.

"Were you able to figure out what triggered this?" He asked.

"Grief. The constant feeling that I don't control anything in my life anymore. The sudden realization that I may not have anyone to care for me when I have my IUD appointment." Her voice was small, tired. She laced her fingers with his. "You are going to be constantly on the road and I need to make peace with this. But, uh, I'll understand if that’s not what you were signing up for. You know, me being all fucked up in the head and unstable. I'll understand if you don't… don't want to stay."

He felt his stomach drop, feeling even more horrible that she was speaking the thoughts that went through his head while she was seeing her therapist.

"What are you talking about?" He asked, instead.

She sighed.

"Spencer, neither of us are stupid. We have known each other for a month and things already are _so complicated_ , and, you know, I'm barely holding on to my own sanity. It's ok. It's ok if you want to pretend nothing happened and go on with your life..." Her voice was breaking and she buried her face on his shoulder, gripping his arm even harder. "I'll understand if you don't want this, if it's too much." His shoulder was getting wet with her tears. "I mean, it's confusing to me too. How can I fall for you while I break apart because I still love a dead woman?"

"Do you want me to go?" He was doing his best to not cry too.

Amélia sniffed.

"No," she whispered.

"Let me take you to your hotel, then."

***

Mia fell asleep in Spencer's arms on her hotel bed after she ate and took a shower. She woke up when the twilight dimmed all the colors in the room. Spencer was asleep too.

She could smell the scent of vanilla beans and jasmine flowers.

With her half opened eyes, Mia could clearly see her, naked, on the bed, with her back turned to them, and occupying the unused pillow.

Her dark-brown fine hairs spread over the pillowcase and Mia could see her chest rising and falling with her slow breath. Mia wanted to touch her, but her limbs wouldn't move. The birthmark and the scar on her right knee weren't visible from this angle, but she knew they were there.

She was palpable. Alive. Alive for those moments in the dimming daylight sharing the bed with two actually living people.

Mia wanted to call her, but her voice wouldn't work.

Vanilla and jasmine.

She could count the freckles on her shoulders, the vertebrae on her spine. She could touch her, if only her arms would move.

_Charlotte. Charlie._

_Charlie, can you forgive me for being alive? Can you forgive me for living beyond you?_

_Charlie, we should have been together when we had the chance._

Even in her sleep, she knew this wasn't true.

The real Charlie never loved her like that.

The real Charlie would never have stayed if she broke into a million pieces in front of her eyes for someone else.

Mia blinked awake. The room was completely dark.

Charlotte was gone.

***

When Spencer woke up from his three hour nap in the middle of the afternoon, Amélia was already awake and working on her laptop at the small working table from her hotel room. She looked at him over her shoulder and gave a small smile.

"Thank you," she simply said.

"For what?"

She turned completely to him, riding the chair with open legs and propped her chin on her hands, which rested on the backrest.

"Staying. Taking care of me. Caring."

"Aren't these like the bare minimum for a boyfriend?" He asked, sitting on the bed and stretching. His neck was stiff.

Amélia chuckled.

"I wouldn't know. No one stayed before."

He stopped rubbing his eyes and looked at her. Spencer didn't want to ask if she was blaming Charlotte for being dead or referring to something she hadn't yet shared with him about their relationship, four years ago.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, instead.

Amélia ran a hand through her hair and looked down.

"Really tired. I had some cramps and took an ibuprofen. I think this morning after pill kind of messed me up, on top of everything else."

"Oh, right. We still need to discuss our appointments and what we are going to do from now on." He remembered. Spencer got up from the bed to get a glass of tap water from her bathroom sink.

"I'll put in an IUD in a month or so, but I would like it if we tried to use condoms. I mean, really try." Her voice came from the bedroom. "Spencer, be real with me, is there any chance you have HIV?"

"What?" He asked, coming back to the room.

"I don't know," she said, defensively. "It's not like people have to have a certain look to be HIV positive and the truth is that I know very little about you."

"There's close to zero percent chance of me having been infected with HIV since February, when I had my last test, Amélia. I can show them all to you, if you want."

She let out a huge sigh.

"I would like that. I can share mine with you too."

Spencer let out a small chuckle with his offer and sat by the end of the bed, close to her chair.

"Amélia, your commitment to your beliefs is commendable and I can check your tests, if this is important to you, but I believe your word."

She frowned at him.

"That makes no sense. You know that it makes no sense, right? Blind trust like this in someone you barely know… That's how people get infected."

"Amélia, I'm not a child, you don't need to educate me." He looked seriously at her. "I will check your tests, you can email them to me right now if you want. I'll get my phone and do the same for you. What else can I do to ease your mind and help you relax?"

She climbed on the bed with him and rested her head on his chest.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I can get… preachy on these subjects. I had an uncle, my mom's brother, he died of AIDS when I was eight."

His fingers went to her hair, caressing her.

"His partner died too. They both were gone with months of difference. They would take me to the beach after school, to musicals and the ballet on the weekends, and we would all go together to the street carnival in February. You must have seen a picture of me as a small Tinkerbell with two pirates in my bedroom."

Spencer remembered the picture. Amélia was probably six in it, she was missing her four incisors at the same time, her green gown had sequins sewn in it and she had glitter hand-made fairy wings, being raised in the air by a man who had a smile similar to hers and lighter skin dressed as a skimpy-dressed version of Hook, while another Latino man ― dressed as a tropical Summer version Mr. Smee ― was showered with golden glitter by small Amélia.

He embraced the woman in his arms even tighter.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," he whispered against her hair.

She chuckled bitterly.

"I feel like I keep throwing one personal tragedy after the other on your lap.”

"Don't worry, I have my fair share of them too."

"You can tell them to me, if you want to."

"My dad left when I was five. For years, I thought he did it because my mom was beginning to show her first schizophrenia symptoms, but seven years ago I found out that my mom had witnessed the murder of a serial killer who was targeting me, by the hands of his last victim's father. My parents helped him get away with it."

Amélia stayed in silence for a while.

"That's a telenovela-worthy amount of drama. I feel a little less weird for sharing my insane life with you." She raised her head and gently kissed his lips. "I'm so sorry you went through this."

"Oh, but my life is way more insane than that. This was just the beginning." Spencer smiled, running his thumb over her brow.

"Kindred spirits," Amélia said, with her eyes closed.

"Kindred spirits," he repeated after her. "There are two more things I think it's important for you to know right away. I should have told you already, I think."

"I'm all ears."

"I dated a girl when I was in the FBI academy, but I wasn't in love with her. I dated a man over four years ago, his name was Adam, I really liked him. But the first person I really loved was called Maeve."

"That's a pretty name," she whispered.

"She was murdered three years ago."

Amélia's eyes fluttered open and she looked intensely at Spencer.

"Sometimes I still feel like I'll crush under the weight of missing her. I will never stop loving her either, Amélia, so you don't need to worry about hurting my feelings with your very fresh and very just feelings for Charlotte. I would never ask you to forget her."

They kissed and Spencer wouldn't be able to know if the tears that made his face wet came from his eyes or hers. Amélia rested her palm over his heart while her tongue ran over his.

"Don't forget her," she whispered against his lips. "Don't leave me, but don't forget her."

They lay down on the bed again, facing each other. Spencer was going to be forever grateful to be able to touch Amélia was much as he wanted to. Like he was never able to do with Maeve.

"We honor the dead by living as best as we can, Amélia."

"I need to schedule Charlotte's funeral."

"I think it would be a good thing for you. It could help you get some closure. As much as it's possible."

"What was the other thing?" She asked him.

"I'm addicted to opioids."

She went still and serious in front of him.

"I have been sober for eight years and it's not a problem to drink or even smoke pot around me. I don't drink, though. I don't use anything that can relax me or alter my consciousness because I can't… I can't forget my decision to not use it anymore."

"Thanks for sharing it all with me." She scooted closer to him in bed.

"Schizophrenic mom, dad issues, murdered first love, and addiction, is this a good amount of tragedy to share on a third date?" He asked, jokingly.

"We seriously need to do less heartbreaking and intense things from now on," she laughed, lacing her arms around his neck.

"It would be a nice change of pace, but, with the risk of sounding really corny, I gladly accept whatever life throws my way to be with you." He kissed her once more.

"Be careful with your promises, Doctor, you tend to take them very seriously and I tend to believe in you." She pushed his hair behind his ears and kissed him.

Amélia rolled over him on the bed, deepening the kiss and tugging his shirt out of his pants. Spencer ran his hands over her slim body, until finally finding the skin of her stomach under her sweatshirt. Amélia unbuttoned his shirt and peppered his chest with kisses. There was no urgency in their movements, no rush. After Amélia disposed of her sweatshirt, she just lay over his torso, lazily kissing his lips and running her fingers over his naked skin. He liked the feeling of this, of being surrounded by her fruity and slightly citric smell and her warmness.

A lake in the summer.

His phone rang on the nightstand.

"I need to take it," he muttered against her lips, disentangling himself from her.

Amélia rolled to the side on the bed, laying on her back and staring at the ceiling while he fetched his phone.

"Hey, Penelope, is everything alright?"

_"Ok, you know how we should have been taking the day off and resting or whatever? I couldn't do it. I'm also super bummed with this whole thing and there's nothing that I hate more than a little bugger not budging to my magic fingers. Like, I had no idea that Charlotte was some secret computer whiz, kudos to her, but I finally managed to find her decryption key. It was a combination of several random numbers on her journals with that sixteen digit sequence in her book. Mad respect for her. I'll love chatting with her for a good part of eternity when I get to the afterlife. She must have made friends with Ada Lovelace already. But I should have expected her to be into coding and all, after all, who else chooses to pay homage to Hedy Fricking Lamarr in her codename?"_ As usual, Penelope spoke 180 words per minute, this time full of excitement.

Spencer got up from the bed, buttoning up his shirt, and walked to the hotel hallway, not wanting Amélia to listen to their conversation when she already had one mental breakdown that day.

"Yes, it makes sense," he agreed, although he didn't fully understand what Penelope was talking about. "What did you discover on the hard drive?"

_"Murder suspects galore._ And _our girl even originally lists Josh Marino as a person of interest related to Natalya's murder. Apparently, the incident at the nightclub he told you guys about did happen, but then Charlotte was quickly convinced that Natalya's death was connected to the other girls’ disappearances. She even wrote an initial profile of the unsub, which kind of matches ours. Seriously, I'm kind of personally invested in getting this guy now because Charlotte seems like she would be a hoot to chat with. Maybe I even know her from coding forums, I have to look her up again with that in mind."_

"How many suspects are we talking about?"

_"Her first list, in March, had fifty names of men in the most different social statuses in the DC area. That's when she was first convinced that the disappearing girls were being murdered. The potential victim before Natalya,_ _Erzsébet Szabó, disappeared in January and she was one of Charlotte's informants too. Charlotte apparently got rattled by it and wrote a lot in her field journal about how Erzsébet would never leave the trade without saying goodbye to them. This one was_ young _, Spencer. She was born in november of 1994, according to Charlotte's notes, and she was working as an escort for less than a year. Baby girl died before she could legally drink."_

"We knew that already, Penelope. We had Charlotte's list from the book and Erzsébet was there. Her only family in Hungary is her mother and stepfather, who weren't too keen on talking about her with Emily, remember?"

_"I know, I know. But one thing is seeing a girl's pictures and documents. A very different thing is reading about her dreams and plans of becoming a supermodel, told through the eyes of someone who considered her a younger sister."_

"Not that I'm questioning your methods, but why are you reading those old files now, instead of looking up things that could actually be more… You know, fitted to our current needs? Useful to convince the Director to reopen the case?"

_"You have to consider that I have to decrypt every single file inside this hard drive before opening it, so it's not that easy. I'm trying to find her file regarding September because there's where our last guys will be. Oh… Oh my god, a new one just opened here. Spencer, I think I should leave here and we should meet at my place."_

"You're at the Bureau?"

_"Obviously. My personal machines aren't like this beast I have here, boy genius. But, for real, I'm unplugging everything and erasing everything from this machine. Spencer, can you be at my house in an hour?"_ Her voice was worried. Something was wrong.

"I… Penelope, I… I'm taking care of someone important today."

_"Doctor Ferreira can join us, I don't mind."_

"What?" He asked, stumped.

_"Come on, Spencer, you're like the worst liar in the world. I've been onto your thing with her for a while now and she keeps texting Charlotte's number. She kind of talked about you a few times. Not mentioning names, but you don't need to be a profiler to crack this one. I mean, not after you took her to your place instead of a safe house last week."_

"Penelope, you..."

_"I'm disobeying direct orders too and, right now,"_ her voice dropped to a hushed tone. _"I'm committing a federal crime and stealing evidence directly from the FBI headquarters, so I think you really shouldn't worry that I know about your little affair with the girl genius."_

"I'll be at your place in an hour," he said, before Penelope turned off her phone.

Spencer got back inside the room. Amélia was in the bathroom. When she left, she was wearing jeans and a sweater, and had loosely braided her hair.

"Can you take me to Eleanor's house before you go?" She asked him, getting her backpack from the small closet in the room.

"Before I go?"

"You left the room when you picked up the phone, so I assumed it was something you didn't want to share with me and that you would probably have to leave. So, I texted Eleanor and she's working from home today. She told me to go there, have a sleepover and spend some time with Salem and all." Amélia shrugged.

"Are you upset that I have to go?"

"Is it important?" Her face was gentle, although serious.

Spencer swallowed.

"Very."

"I bought a prepaid phone with that number I used to text you last night. Let's not go a whole week without talking to each other again?"

He walked towards her. Amélia was zipping up her bag already.

"I'm not very good at texting, but I'll try to call you even if I'm not in town."

Amélia held his hands and kissed them.

"I usually hate talking on the phone, but I can make an exception for you. Will you mind if I text you my most random thoughts?"

"I will love it. Please, try to write most of them in English, for my sake."

She laughed and Spencer kissed her, trying to drink the sound.

***

Right before Spencer and Amélia entered the subway station to go to his building to get his car, his phone rang again.

"Hey, Rossi."

_"Kid, Garcia called me. Everything is alright, but don't go to her place. Come to mine instead. We decided that, if anyone knows about our little gathering, it happening at chez moi will draw less attention to our small conspiracy."_

"It's not a conspiracy," Spencer argued.

Amélia had put on her headphones as soon as he told her it was a work call.

_"That's not what IA will say, if they ever find out. Anyway, that doesn't matter now. I'm whipping up a quick parmigiana for our dinner and I wanted to know if la tua ragazza has any dietary restrictions."_

"I'm not taking anyone with me tonight, Rossi."

_"What? You're finally dating someone interesting - not that Adam wasn't a good kid, but he never was the brightest lamp in the room - and you're denying us the chance to meet her?"_

"Did Garcia tell you about…?"

_"Garcia only told me you were with your secret girlfriend, Reid. For all of our sakes, let's hope you're better at going rogue than you are at pretending you're not in love with our federal witness. Ok. See you in an hour, then. Send my best wishes to Bella Amélia."_

So, after dropping Amélia at the building where the Adeoyes lived, Spencer drove to Rossi's mansion. Penelope was already there, glass of wine in hands, looking very worried near the fireplace in the living room.

"Dinner will be ready in a few minutes," Rossi announced as he poured some fancy grape juice in a wine glass for Spencer. "I think it will give us time to process what Garcia has discovered.”

Penelope took a big gulp of her wine and looked nervously at Spencer before starting to speak.

"Ok, so, remember how you guys said that Marino probably had a Master? Some guy with money and means behind him, someone who killed all those women before Charlotte?"

"Yes," Spencer agreed, sitting on an armchair in front of her.

"Charlotte's first suspect list had fifty names or so. The amount of guys in DC who use the various escort businesses where those women worked is _not small_ . In the end, on her last entry on the hard drive, Charlotte had ten suspects. All these men were in town on the dates of the murders ― I believe that Charlotte did some hacking to find things about them. They are all _very_ powerful and _very_ rich. Very, very powerful. I think she was right to be worried. And I guess I know how the unsub found her before she found him."

Penelope handed Spencer a piece of paper. On it, there were ten names printed, apparently in alphabetical order.

  1. Dewayne Thomas, Head of Vice Presidential Protection Detail
  2. Erik Stein, CEO of Pfizer
  3. Ian T. Larsen, Judge, United States District Court for the District of Columbia 
  4. Justin Miller, media mogul, owner of News Inc.
  5. Louis Duvivier, French Ambassador
  6. Mark Newlands, Chief of the MPD
  7. Rep. Matthew G. Bradford
  8. Peter W. Sweeney, FBI Washington Field Office Assistant Director in Charge
  9. Steven White, M.D., Head of Neurosurgery at Virginia Hospital Center 
  10. Sen. Theodore P. Hawthorne IV



After reading all the names, Spencer wished he could have a stiff drink.

"The only good news with this list is that we can already cross a name off it," Rossi had a whiskey in his hands and he wasn't seated, but standing near the glass windows that opened to his beautiful courtyard.

"Which one?"

"Unless Representative Bradford isn't Charlotte's biological brother, he's not our unsub."

"No, they are blood related," Spencer said, although his head was still spinning. "Matthew and Charlotte have the same shape of ear as Richard. They have several other genetic markers, but I don't think that either of you care for me to go on with that."

"No, we believe in you, Spencer. No need for a biology lesson right now," Penelope answered, standing up to refill her wine.

"Great, so, instead of ten, we need to find who, amongst nine of the most powerful men in America, is a secret serial killer," Spencer grumbled, feeling his heart beating against his throat.

"And one of them happens to be our bosses' boss," Rossi added, raising his whiskey glass to Spencer and Penelope as a toast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes
> 
> [1] Literally: "Good morning, flower of the day"; Meaning: "Good morning, sunshine"  
> [2] Sadly, there's no translation for "dengo". It's something like "my sweetheart", but even more tender, even more intimate. It's for someone you can't stop touching and loving  
> [3] "Hi, Amélia! Nice to see you! Where's today's girl?"  
> "Hi, Lidia. How have you been? Today the appointment is for myself"  
> [4] "Hey, girl, your friend is super handsome!"
> 
> Author's notes:
> 
> So, folks, Sexual Health is very important. Always discuss with your partners about what kind of protection you're choosing to use. If you're in a potentially reproductive relationship, the ideal is to use some specific method for birth control besides a barrier method of protection for ISTs. And, remember, always, always, get tested. If you're sexually active (even if you're in a monogamic relationship), ask to be tested at least for HIV and syphilis annually or bi-annually.  
> Both infections are treatable and syphilis is curable, but timing is important to catch them before it's too late. If you're a person living with HIV, know you're valid, you're important, and don't forget your meds. If you don't have HIV, you don't need to be afraid to get into a relationship with someone who has it. Just wear condoms and talk with your doctor about going on the PrEP (Pre-Exposure Prophylaxis).  
> If you have multiple partners, don't forget to wear condoms and dispose them after each use. People with vaginas in relationships with other people with vaginas also need to take measures of damage control and self-care!  
> Queer resistance is also fighting AIDS! Fighting AIDS is remembering our herstory and our fallen foremothers and siblings.  
> I regret nothing for forcing you all to read about this in the middle of my non-conventional murder mystery, but I rewarded the ones who stuck with this story with, finally, our murder suspect list ;)


	16. Poisonous fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the outside it was beautiful, white with red cheeks, and anyone who saw it would want it. But anyone who might eat a little piece of it would die.

Mia went from sharing an office with four other postdoctoral fellows to sharing an office with one other Associate Professor. She had a real work desk now and a wall behind it to decorate as she saw fit. Professor Elias MacLeish was a part of the Sociology of Education research group and focused on Early Childhood Education. His part of the room was filled with Naïve art and children's finger paintings and drawings. When Mia and Toshiro arrived on Monday with her things, the room was decorated for Halloween. On his work desk, there was even a plastic pumpkin basket filled with candy.

"Ah, good morning, new colleague! Mr. Nakamura!" He exclaimed, gleefully, with his Minnesota accent, and got up from his desk to help Mia carry her stuff. "I hope you don't mind that I put some bats and skeletons on your wall, but I just can't handle empty walls with less than a week to go ‘til Halloween!" He dragged out the syllables when saying "Halloween," doing a spooky voice.

"Good morning, Professor MacLeish," Toshiro greeted him back, putting the two boxes with Mia's books on the floor near her new department-issued bookshelf and starting to put them in place.

Mia would rearrange things later, making sure that the books matched her own variation of the Dewey System, but for now she was just grateful that her friend volunteered to help her with the move. The old group of Charlotte's friends seemed eager to absorb Mia as one of their own and they all insisted that they should have a small Halloween party at Kate's house that weekend to celebrate that Mia got hired by Georgetown. "It's what Charlie would have wanted," Kate said. Mia couldn't disagree.

She had called Ishaan on Friday, after she talked a bit with Eleanor, and decided to schedule Charlotte's funeral for that November 2nd, even if it was a Monday. She wasn't religious, but she needed the powerful ritual energy of the Day of The Dead to give her the strength to say goodbye. Ishaan said it wasn't a problem. Charlotte had set aside a considerable sum for her own funeral expenses and she had already bought a spot in The Gardens of Gethsemane Cemetery, in Boston. Amélia just needed to choose the tree and invite her guests. A private plane would take them there.

She opted to go low-profile. Just Eleanor and Ewa, who managed to get a personal day from the hospital; Toshiro and Rachel; and Kate. And the Bradfords, if they wanted to show up.

Their small group would fly to Boston early on Monday morning, have a small ceremony in the garden, eat brunch at a restaurant Charlie and Kate used to frequent during their years at Yale, and come back to DC in the afternoon.

On their call, Ishaan also let her know that the town house would be ready to move back into on Wednesday, the 28th, if Mia wanted to. She didn't. But she had no short-term solution to her problem either.

"No, it's not a problem, Professor MacLeish," Mia answered her tall colleague, putting the box she was carrying on top of her work desk and hanging her backpack behind her chair. "If you don't mind, I'll bring some flowers for the dead too."

"Oh, yeah, marigolds and La Santa Muerte? I love it." Professor MacLeish placed the box he had taken from Mia's hands on the floor beside Toshiro.

"I'm not Mexican," Mia said with a tense smile. "I'll just bring their photos and put some white roses in front of the pictures, that's all."

He looked a bit disappointed with her answer.

"What a shame. I love the colorful marigolds," the older man said.

Mia was using all of her self-will to not look like a bitch. That man could potentially share this room with her for decades.

"Well, if you want to bring an offering of marigolds for the dead, it's not a problem, Professor MacLeish. I go with white roses because they were Charlie's favorites, that's all." Mia put up a picture of the last Christmas her family had in Brazil, before her parents brought her to the U.S, on the desk beside a two year old picture of her and Charlie on spring break in Havana.

"Have you both heard the news already?" Professor MacLeish asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"What news?" Toshiro, who had been silent so far, was the one to indulge him.

Toshiro was shorter than Mia, with black hair he always wore in long bangs, and, although he was still very slim, he was getting more buff with each passing month on Testosterone. In the corner of his small mouth, he had a small piercing. About his choice in looks, Rachel would joke that Toshiro never overcame his teenage crush on _The L Word_ 's Shane.

"Apparently, some benevolent alumnus remembered his alma mater and donated a huge sum of money to renovate the Social Sciences' library. Wong got the news last week."

"That's nice..." Mia muttered, without paying much attention.

"It's very weird, because Mr. Jim Ellison's BA was in Engineering and he never really cared much about Georgetown until last week."

" _Jim Ellison_ was the guy who made the donation for our library?!" Toshiro let one of Mia's books fall to the floor, in shock. "Tech mogul Amazon competitor NRA supporter Jim Freaking Ellison gave _books to Social Scientists_? Doesn't he think that Social Sciences faculties are an inbreeding ground for communists and the collapse of Western civilization or whatever?"

This made Mia stop what she was doing and raise her head, surprised.

"Everyone is as surprised as you, but the favor he asked in return was so small that the board didn't care." MacLeish shrugged, eating a candy bar and tossing one at Toshiro.

Before Mia could ask what favor Jim Ellison could have asked in return for his benevolence, her phone rang, so she grabbed her coat and exited her office to pick it up.

"Hey, Daniel, what's up?" The late October wind howled through the halls of Georgetown.

There was a lot of noise in the background of his call, like he was at a party or something.

_"Amelita, cariño, how fast can you come here?! We are bursting out the champagne!"_

_"Ameliaaaaaa, come over!"_ Laila screamed in the back, already drunk.

"Daniel, it's 9 a.m on a Monday, what the hell is going on?"

_"I just got out of a meeting with a Director from the Ford Foundation and we got_ money _, Amelita! A serious amount of money to finance our work! We will be able to renovate the building, pay living wages to people, and create that free clinic with Doctor Jane we always dreamed about!"_

People screamed and cheered in the background.

"What? That's wonderful! I didn't even know that you were in touch with them!"

_"I send them proposals every year, they never got back to us, but now Tiago can finally relax because we are thriving, Amelita! Thriving! Get your butt up here ASAP, this victory is yours too! Without your data, this would never have happened!"_

"I really can't, Daniel, it's my first day on the new job. I need to be here, even if I don't have classes to teach today. But we can celebrate when I'm there on Wednesday, ok? Send my love to everyone."

_"Boo, Amélia, don't be a drag!"_

"Bye, Daniel, I'm going back into my office now. Beijos."

_"¡Besos, viejita! ¡Hasta Miércoles!_ "

When Mia got back inside her office, she saw that Toshiro had finished with almost all of her books already.

"Hey, do you want to get a coffee from that fancy bakery across the street from campus? I'm buying," she told him.

Toshiro raised his eyebrows at her, incredulous.

"Are you rich already? I thought you were going to be broke until your first payday." He got up from the floor, patting his pants.

"No, I'll charge it on my credit card and worry about that in December, but I just got news that No Borders had a huge funding grant approved by the Ford Foundation and with this, the new job, and the news that we will finally have new computers at the library, I'm in the mood for celebrating."

"It's very nice to have friends in high places, isn't it?" MacLeish spoke without raising his head from the book he was reading at his desk, so Mia had no idea whom he was speaking to or what he meant. She wasn't in the mood to figure it out, either.

"I suppose so. I should be back in an hour or so, Professor MacLeish, but I have the keys to the office, so you don't need to worry about me." Mia gave him a polite smile when Toshiro joined her by the door.

That was when Elias MacLeish raised his head to look at Mia, with a weird smile on his face.

"I'm not worried about you, Professor Ferreira."

***

On Monday morning Spencer woke up to the news that the team was leaving town to investigate their new case. A series of four murders with Native American ritualistic elements had horrified a small town in Alaska in the span of a single week. Local Law Enforcement asked for the help of the FBI when an outsider journalist, who was in town to cover the investigation, became the fourth victim over the weekend. The town had been founded in the 1990s and was in the middle of a tug of war between a natural gas company and the local Natives, who claimed that land as theirs. The murders raised the tensions even more and the Director chose to send the BAU there before the thing turned into a bloodbath.

While he packed his bags, he called Amélia, told her the news and that he had no idea when he would be able to come back.

_"We celebrate your birthday when you come back, meu bem."_ She yawned at the end of her sentence. Spencer looked at his alarm clock once more. 5:43 a.m. _"Don't forget to wear your bullet-proof vest, lock your doors, and, please, be careful, Spencer._ "

"I’ve managed to stay alive on this job for the past ten years, Amélia," he chuckled.

_"Yes, but now you need to be alive for me."_

When they landed the jet on the private runway the executives of the gas company used when they went to that town almost in the Arctic, it was past noon already. There was a text from Amélia informing him that "No Borders" had gotten funding from the Ford Foundation and Georgetown had gotten a donation from Jim Ellison to renovate the Social Sciences library.

"I wasn't aware that Ellison even acknowledged the existence of books," he texted her back.

She answered him with several laughing emojis.

***

In all the times Charlie took her to Boston, they had never even considered going to a cemetery. In fact, Mia hadn't stepped foot in one since tio Juliano died.

Spencer was still in Alaska, freezing to death and calling her at the oddest hours to talk when the Day of the Dead arrived. Not that she was expecting him to go with her to Boston, after all, they weren't public about their relationship yet. Only Eleanor and Ewa knew about this aspect of her life ― and thought it was a symptom that she was losing her mind.

Mia dressed all in white for Charlotte's funeral: linen pants, wool sweater, and even her shoes. Tio Juliano was an Umbandista [1], so Margarida kept alive in the family the tradition of wearing white for the dead and going to the beach on the Day of the Dead to throw white roses into the ocean so Yemanjá would take care of her baby brother in her beautiful kingdom of pearls and corals. They dressed in white and blue for the New Year and February 2nd [2] and went to the ocean with white flowers and coconut shavings. Mia had an odd relationship with the ocean. She didn't believe in a god or an afterlife or magic, but she believed in the love for her uncle she could feel every time the waves caressed her legs.

There was no ocean in Washington. In San Francisco and even New York, Mia was always able to go to the ocean dressed in white every February 2nd, in the middle of their freezing winters, to offer white roses and coconut shavings and pray that Yemanjá kept her uncle safe, amongst her pearls and corals. There was no ocean in Boston either, so she would add this one as another of her debts to the deity she didn't even know how much she believed in. She hoped to be able to go somewhere warm next February. Somewhere she could pray for Charlie and tio Juliano.

The private airplane Ishaan hired for the funeral arrived with their small group at the airport at 8:30 a.m. A town car took them to the Gardens of Gethsemane Cemetery, where Mia finally handed the small cardboard box with Charlie's ashes to the employee handling the ceremony.

It was a sunny and cold fall day. The wind made Mia feel grateful that she was already back at the house she now hated and was able to borrow Charlie's white gloves and a white overcoat. Eleanor, Ewa, and Toshiro dressed in white like her. Rachel and Kate opted for black clothes.

When they were about to start the ceremony, to everyone's surprise, Matthew and Rebecca arrived. His assistant had never gotten back with Ishaan to confirm or deny his presence, but Matt apparently had opted to represent his family at his sister's less than ideal funeral. Rebecca was the first one to greet Mia, with two airy kisses on both sides of her face.

Matt was staring at the young sapling that one day would be Charlotte's tree. Mia walked to his side when Eleanor gave her a significant look, as if to say she should inquire about their presence there and see how this might change what they had planned.

"Cherry?" Was the first thing he said to her, still looking intently at the sapling. "I never knew Charlie was such a fan of cherry trees." Before Mia could justify herself, he turned to face her. "But, then again, if there's one thing I've learned in the past month, it’s that I knew nothing about my sister."

Mia had no idea how to respond to that, just that the woman reflected in Matt's sunglasses didn't look anything like the image she used to have of herself.

"She always loved DC's cherry trees. Charlie would talk about taking a trip to Japan to see them in bloom. I thought it would be a nice idea," she ended up saying.

Matt gave her a bitter smile. Not like the one she had seen all those years. It wasn't the politician talking to her. It was almost like there was real pain underneath his facade. Or, again, it was possible that Matt was so good at faking that he believed his own lies. Like those lines in Fernando Pessoa's poem:

_"O poeta é um fingidor._

_Finge tão completamente_

_Que chega a fingir que é dor_

_A dor que deveras sente."_ [3]

"If anyone would know what my sister would like or not it’s you, Amelia." He made a gesture with his hand, like he was considering perhaps touching her arm, but he gave up. "Could we have lunch sometime this week? I would like to talk to you."

"To me?" Mia was surprised. Now that Charlie was dead, what could possibly draw her and Matthew G. Bradford to the same lunch table?

He chuckled at her surprise.

"Yes, about my sister's legacy. I would like to know you better. Know her better. This is Rebecca's idea, she thinks it will be good for grieving and closure and all those things."

"Yes, those things."

"Look, I know my family treated you like shit all these years and I did my fair share of that. But I loved her. I taught her how to skip stones and how to ride a bike. We lost each other when I went to college. I'm not an idiot. I know we were very different, but, I don't know, a small part of me..." His voice trailed off and he turned his head to the side, sniffling. "I always thought we would find each other again, some day."

"Ask your chief of staff to call me. He has my number. We'll schedule a day and I'll lunch with you, ok, Matt?" It was Mia who ended up touching his arm.

He was as surprised as her by the gesture.

"Ok, great. God, the air is filled with pollen today. I'll go sit with my wife before she comes back here to check up on me. Thank you, Amelia."

Mia went to the front of the few chairs assembled on the wet grass. She had brought no paper with her. She didn't need to.

"So, no one here is surprised that Charlie wanted to be a tree," was her opening line. She was rewarded with a few chuckles. "Charlotte always had this _thing_ for trees and plants and everything that could sprout. Her cooking was horrendous, but, in the summer, our garden always had the most beautiful zucchinis. Her mother once told me that Charlotte would always pester the gardener at their house when she was little, walking behind him all day, wanting to know the names of the plants and how to tend to them."

Mia heard Matt say "that's true" to Rebecca, who shushed him.

"Charlie was a very private person, who had few close friends, all of whom are here today. Even so, her smile was so bright that everyone loved her. I loved her." Her voice broke into a sob. Maybe she wouldn't be able to get to the end of this. "I feel kind of ridiculous because I wasn't a crier. _She_ was the crier. She cried at butter commercials, puppy videos, her culinary fails... She was the sentimental one. And now I can't stop crying. I say goodbye to her every day when I realize I can't share some dumb meme with her or she can't feed Salem when I don't want to get out of the bed just yet. I say goodbye to her all the time because, when she left..." She was fully crying at this point, and tried to clean her face with her hands. "I'll just say the poem I had prepared for today and we can move on. It… It was one of her favorites, by a fellow bisexual Massachusetts native, like Charlie, Sylvia Plath."

Mia was shaking. She had always been an excellent public speaker, but this time her voice was broken and her whole body just shook like a leaf on the wind.

"Love letter

Not easy to state the change you made.

If I'm alive now, then I was dead,

Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,

Staying put according to habit.

You didn't just tow me an inch, no-

Nor leave me to set my small bald eye

Skyward again, without hope, of course,

Of apprehending blueness, or stars.

That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake

Masked among black rocks as a black rock

In the white hiatus of winter-

Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure

In the million perfectly-chisled

Cheeks alighting each moment to melt

My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears,

Angels weeping over dull natures,

But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.

Each dead head had a visor of ice.

And I slept on like a bent finger.

The first thing I was was sheer air

And the locked drops rising in dew

Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay

Dense and expressionless round about.

I didn't know what to make of it.

I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded

To pour myself out like a fluid

Among bird feet and the stems of plants.

I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once. 

Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.

My finger-length grew lucent as glass.

I started to bud like a March twig:

An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.

From stone to cloud, so I ascended.

Now I resemble a sort of god

Floating through the air in my soul-shift

Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift."

If, later, someone asked her about her speech, Mia wouldn't be able to describe it. There were several types of fugue states, it appeared. Some of them didn't take away your consciousness completely, but made the memory form in a blurry and vague way. Mia remembered Charlie's sapling bending with the wind of the cemetery and being guided by gentle hands away from her final resting place. Now, there was a tree that would make a piece of her belong forever in Boston. A tree growing from the ashes of the dead. She knew she said the words of the poem correctly because, like everything Amélia Ferreira Rodriguez had read once in her life since she was three years old, she knew it by heart. Sometimes things went to higher and dustier shelves in the rooms of her memory, but it was just a matter of taking a deep breath, mentally walking her hallways until she found the file or the book where she stored it and the words would flow again.

Even the brunch and the plane ride happened mechanically. Mia remembered, or thought she remembered, the taste of mimosas and pancakes on her tongue. There was something with blackberries, she was sure of it. What it was she couldn't say. Eleanor took her home after Ewa kissed her cheek at the airport and said something about the hospital.

Charlotte was really actually dead.

Eleanor helped her up the stairs and left her alone with a glass of water by Charlotte's old bed, where Mia had been sleeping alone for the past several nights, ever since she found out she could hardly bear to walk inside her own bedroom again. She had to leave that house. Perhaps Matt could help her figure out what to do with Charlotte's things.

The thoughts passed through her head like clouds through the sky. It got dark in the room. Salem needed to be fed; he meowed and meowed asking for food. But Mia couldn't move, she just couldn't move. She had a class to teach Tuesday afternoon at her brand new job. If only she could move.

She heard the sounds of Salem's kibbles being put in his bowl and then someone was climbing up her stairs. Maybe Eleanor had used her spare key to come back and check on her.

Maybe whoever was working with Marino decided to pay her a visit and finish his poorly executed job. Well, at least he fed Salem.

Mia should move.

Someone who smelled like coffee, old books, lemons, and the ocean lay on the bed with her and embraced her from behind.

"Eleanor was really worried about you. Worried enough to text me."

"She hates you," her voice finally worked.

He chuckled and held her tighter.

"Well, she loves you enough to agree to give me the spare key to your house when I showed up at her place at 11 p.m."

"It's that late already? I didn't realize."

"Are you hungry?"

"No." She thought for a minute. "Aren't you in Alaska?"

"I came back this morning. I tried to call you, but you didn't pick up your phone all day."

She rolled on the bed to look at him. There were dark circles under his eyes. She ran her fingers over his brow and nose.

"Eu senti saudade," she whispered.

"You know I don't speak Portuguese."

"You need to learn it, Spencer. Because saying that I 'missed you' really doesn't have the same weight as having 'saudade'."

He kissed her, gently.

"I'm glad that you're feeling well enough to scold me already."

She held him close, wishing she could disappear in his chest.

"I wasn't trying to scold you. I'm sorry."

"It's ok, I missed you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] [Umbanda is an Afro-Brazilian religion](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Umbanda)  
> [2] February 2nd is the day of [Our Lady of Seafarers](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Our_Lady_of_Navigators), a version of the Virgin Mary which is highly worshipped in Brazil. In the times that Candomblé, Umbanda, Batuque, and other Afro-Brazilian religions were illegal or highly persecuted (which they still are, to this day), its practitioners fused Our Lady of Seafarers with [ Yemanjá.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yem%E1%BB%8Dja) Yemanjá is the orisha of the ocean. Tio Juliano was a Yemanjá's devout, hence why his family thinks he's with her in his afterlife  
> [3] [Fernando Pessoa](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fernando_Pessoa). These lines roughly translate to: "The poet is a pretender / He pretends so completely / He can even pretends to feel the pain / With the pain he actually feels". Maybe I'm a lousy translator, because it's beautiful in Portuguese and it kind of sucks in English.


	17. Hey, little songbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, little songbird, look all around you  
> See how the vipers and vultures surround you  
> And they'll take you down, they'll pick you clean  
> If you stick around such a desperate scene  
> See, people get mean when the chips are down

It was almost unbearably warm outside the water, like the summers in Rio growing up. Havana reminded her of home like nowhere else had ever felt. Charlie had the idea for them to leave the hotel in the middle of the night and go to the beach for a swim. It was their first trip together, just the two of them, after the breakup. The water was cool against Mia's skin and the air smelled like salt. Mia laughed so loudly she woke up some seagulls, who flew away, annoyed at their happiness.

Charlie kissed her. Her lips tasted like salt and mojitos and her pruney fingers held Mia's face while their tongues brushed against one another. In her drunken state, Mia was giddy for a moment, thinking this meant they would be back together. _Finally_.

A big wave hit them and dragged them to the bottom of the infinite ocean. Mia lost hold of Charlie as the tide pulled her even further to the dark. She couldn't breathe.

There was a huge man who smelled of cheap whiskey and cigarettes on top of her, his massive hands squeezing her throat. He laughed as Mia clawed at his forearms, trying to get to his face. She squirmed and kicked and she just couldn't breathe.

***

Amélia sat up on the bed, breathing hard and shaking. Spencer looked at his wrist watch: 2 a.m. They had fallen asleep fully clothed on Charlotte's bed. He was still exhausted and jet-lagged from the trip.

One more person had died before they were able to find their unsub. The killer was impulsive, disorganized, and so very young. The sixteen-year-old son of a middle manager for the gas company had the idea of killing one of his rivals from school like "the Indians" and decided he liked blood and torture too much to stop. He was an active member in alt-right online forums and had hoped to provoke an insurrection of "the good folk" against "the savages." When the team started zeroing on him, the boy chose the route of suicide by cop, trying to stab Tara and forcing Luke to shoot him.

But he had to leave all of that behind. Now, Amélia needed him.

He rubbed her back.

"Hey, shh… Amélia, what's wrong?"

Her hand reached for his and she curled up against him one more time in bed.

"I need to leave this house," she whispered, still shaking. "Or else I'll go insane."

He held her tight against his chest and kissed her hair.

"The problem is that I don't have means for..."

"Amélia, Amélia, it's the middle of the night. We can talk more in the morning."

***

Spencer reasoned with her that Mia should just give in and ask for a loan with her bank. She was a Professor at Georgetown, who was meant to get a massive inheritance in less than sixty days. It made no sense for her to live in a house that didn't allow her to sleep well and count her pennies. So she did it. She signed a short-term loan and hired a real estate agent to help her find a temporary place to live. She didn't want to buy anything at first and she didn't want anything big or flashy. Just somewhere where Salem, Mia, and her things could fit comfortably. An already furnished apartment, preferably close to the subway and the campus.

What was to be made of the townhouse, however, was yet to be decided. Mia didn't want to rent or sell it and the idea of keeping a perfectly good house closed without anyone inhabiting it cut her deeply. She hadn't told anyone yet, but she had no intention of keeping the money once it was in her possession. Not all of it, at least.

"Professor Ferreira?" A blonde woman in her late thirties, dressed in cheerful colors, knocked on her office's door on Thursday afternoon.

She wasn't one of her students.

"Yes. How may I help you?" Mia asked, closing the book she was taking notes from and saving the file opened on her personal computer.

The woman eyed the room, as if to check if Mia was alone, and then came inside, closing the door behind her.

"I'm Penelope Garcia, I… I work with Spencer."

Mia blinked a few times, intrigued. She remembered Spencer talking to a Penelope on the phone, but she hadn't shown any ID and there was no reason for Mia to take her word that she was an FBI agent.

"Shouldn't you show me a badge or something, agent?"

She got closer to Mia's desk, clutching her huge and colorful bag against her body.

"I'm not an agent. I'm a Technical Analyst. But I'm most definitely not here in any official capacity. I'm… I'm here for Charlotte."

A cold feeling washed over her.

"Did… Did you know her?"

Penelope put her bag on top of Mia's desk and sat on the free chair across from hers. She gave Mia a sad smile.

"Unfortunately, no. Not in person, at least. I have been working with her digital footprints, trying to crack the clues she left behind. When I got a hold of her codes, I realized that Charlotte had been on the Deep Web and coding forums for a while, under the name of hedy_lovelace617. We kind of knew each other from these forums; she was a serious activist for teaching young women how to code."

Mia chuckled. Of course Charlotte's pen names were all about Ada Lovelace, genius mathematician and the mother of coding, and Hedy Lamarr, old Hollywood star, double spy in World War II, and inventor of the technology that would create wi-fi.

"Yes, that was Charlie."

"Charlie, that's what you call her, right? It's adorable." There was a multitude of compassion in Penelope's face. Mia couldn't handle it.

"Not trying to be rude, Ms. Garcia..."

"Please, call me Penelope," she interrupted Mia, putting her hand on the table as if she wanted to hold Mia's.

"Penelope," Mia corrected herself, as a gesture of goodwill. "I have a class to teach in twenty minutes, so, if you could tell me what brings you here, I would be really grateful."

"Oh, yes. Yes, I'm so sorry." She took a small pendrive from her purse and offered it to Mia. "You don't need to open it right now, but do it in a device that isn't connected to the internet, please. I don't know if you're being surveilled..."

"Surveilled? Who would want to do that?" Mia frowned, but she took the pendrive from Penelope's hands.

This question made the other woman appear to be stumped.

"Oh… I… I assumed that Spencer had told you..." She muttered.

"What should Dr. Reid have told me?" Mia pressed her, feeling something akin to rage beginning to form.

Penelope's eyes averted hers for a moment. And then she looked again at Mia.

"Listen, I know about you two. He knows that I know. Most of our coworkers won't speak about this out loud because it could jeopardize Spencer's work, but I assume they know too. He's a terrible liar, you know..."

"Who would put surveillance on me, Penelope?" Her voice was firm, but her hands were shaking again.

"We don't know yet!" Penelope's voice was an urgent whisper. "You're probably not being watched by anyone and I'm being paranoid, but there was _a reason_ why Charlotte was being paranoid, so I think that a bit of paranoia can't hurt this time." She got up from her chair. "It was a pleasure to meet you; I really hope that we can meet again, under better circumstances this time."

Not five minutes went by after Penelope left before Professor MacLeish came back from his lunch break. Mia was then glad that she hadn't given in to the temptation of watching whatever was on that pendrive then and there, and put it away in her blouse's pocket.

"Hey there, Ferreira." He had brown bags with a party shop's logo on them in his arms. "Time to take down the Halloween decorations, huh?"

"I suppose so..." For the lack of anything better to do and not wanting MacLeish in her corner of the room without a good reason, Mia got up and started collecting the paper bats and skeletons he had put up on her walls.

"My kids make the most adorable finger-painted turkeys, if you want a homemade touch on your corner of the room," he said, as he folded spooky children's Halloween's drawings and put them away in folders.

"Oh, I… Are you… Are you decorating for Thanksgiving?"

"What do you mean? Of course we are!" He laughed and looked at her as if she was insane.

Mia swallowed the words she wanted to say and bit her lower lip while she thought of a dignified answer.

"Thank you, MacLeish, but I will bring my own decorations this time, if that's ok with you."

"Sure!" He answered, and started to put up turkey, pumpkin, and corn themed decorations on the walls.

Mia would have to text her friends in the Anthropology department and ask for some Native American art to put in her corner. She would rather eat her own shoes before she joyfully celebrated colonialism.

***

The pendrive weighed heavily on Mia's chest until she arrived at home, around dinnertime. She was already exhausted, but she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep without knowing what was on it. So she got her old laptop, which could only work if it was plugged in, and turned it on without connecting to the house's wifi. While its ancient drive dealt with being pulled away from slumber after three years, Mia warmed up some leftover chicken noodle soup and opened a bottle of wine from the cellar. If she could be thankful for anything, it was that Marino didn't bother to go into their basement and her inherited cellar was left untouched.

When she settled at the dinner table, with the semi-functioning laptop opened and her dinner in front of her, Mia took the pendrive from her pocket and plugged it into the laptop's USB port. It only had one mp4 file in it, named "Mia".

She pushed her dinner to the side and clicked on the icon, holding her glass of wine as if it could work as some protection spell.

Mia gasped when the image showed Charlotte's room. The tree outside of her window was green and birds could be heard in the background of the video. Then Charlie walked in front of the camera and sat on her bed. She was wearing jean shorts and an old and ratty feminist t-shirt. Her hair was braided and her skin was flushed with the heat. Mia could almost smell her.

Charlie chuckled before saying anything.

"Hey, Mia. Recording this is, like, _weird_ ," she stopped speaking for a moment. "Especially when I'm about to leave our house and meet you at a Solstice party with all of our friends."

Oh, she had recorded it before Eleanor's birthday, on July 21st. Natalya had died a little over a week before this. That was why Charlie's eyes had deep purple circles underneath them. She was crying a lot during that time. They were fighting a lot; Mia asked her multiple times to stop her research and she would say Mia "didn't get it."

"So, uh, it's customary ― at least in the movies ― that I say 'if you're watching this, it's because I'm dead'. I mean, it's true, if you have my hard drive and are watching this video, I died." Her face was very serious for a moment, and then she snorted. "I mean, I'm probably being very paranoid and I won't _die_ or anything, but… I still wanted to record this for you. Perhaps more for myself, so I can rewatch later and remember what I would want to say to you if I thought I was going to die. Fuck, I'm being very dramatic, huh?"

Mia let out a watery laugh and took a sip of her wine. She missed Charlie. She missed Charlie so much. And this video was her in her most pure form. All the quirks, the facial expressions, the arrogance, the tenderness.

"I'm scared, Mia."

She was serious again and Mia sobbed.

"Someone is killing girls they think no one will miss. I miss them. I will always miss them." Charlie was crying now too. "You understand me. All the times you used our house like it was some version of the Underground Railroad and the fact that you risk everything you have to help these people fleeing wars, violence, hunger, and lack of hope in the future… You understand me. More than anyone else. That's why, earlier this year, I decided to write a will and nominate you as my sole heir." Then Charlie laughed again. "I am really sorry that I won't be able to see my parents' faces when they find out. That is, if they ever find out. Plan A is still surviving, finishing my thesis, finding a way to stop this bastard, and… I don't know, be better in life. I want to be better, Mia, because I love you."

Mia couldn't see the video anymore because her tears had fogged her glasses.

"I… It's such a weird feeling, loving someone like I love you. I want you to meet someone else, someone who can give you the commitment and the stability I'll never be able to. I'll never be the person you wished I was, my love, but… I think we met too soon, too young. Maybe, someday. Someday I'll be older, wiser, quieter, and perhaps you will still love me too. Like in _Love in the Time of Cholera_ [1], that you made me read. Perhaps our time is yet to come, Mia. But… But if it never does, if the worst case scenario happens and I… And I meet the fate of these girls, I want you to know I chose you to have everything that's mine because I wish I had the guts to do that in life. I want you to do whatever you want with the money, the house, the car, the furniture… Because I know that no one else could be more deserving or choose better."

They both stayed in silence for what seemed forever. Separated by months in time and by the enormity of change between the dead and the living, both young women cried. It was like magic, because, while the video was on, Charlie was alive, and she would be alive forever, in those minutes frozen in time. Mia could play it and pretend that she would come down the stairs and complain that Mia started dinner without her.

"Ok, this was super fucking depressing. I mean, I hope that you are very sad if I'm, in fact, dead, but I just can't with this."

Mia was confused when Charlie got up and didn't stop the video. And then a familiar song started playing in the background.

_Menina, amanhã de manhã_

_Quando a gente acordar_

_Quero te dizer_

_Que a felicidade vai_

_Desabar sobre os homens_

_Vai_

_Desabar sobre os homens_

_Vai_

_Desabar sobre os homens [2]_

Charlie turned the camera and she was standing up in the middle of her room. She picked up Salem from the floor, who immediately protested, and started dancing to Tom Zé with their cat on her hip.

_Na hora ninguém escapa_

_Debaixo da cama_

_Ninguém se esconde_

_A felicidade vai_

_Desabar sobre os homens_

_Vai_

_Desabar sobre os homens_

_Vai_

_Desabar sobre os homens_

"You know I really can't dance to samba, no matter how much you tried to teach me," Charlie said, laughing. "And my partner isn't very cooperative at the moment." Salem's face was a mix of horror and the promise that he would kill Charlie if he had the opportunity. "This is how I want you to remember me, love. This is what I want for us, for you."

_Menina, ela mete medo_

_Menina, ela fecha a roda_

_Menina, não tem saída_

_De cima, de banda ou de lado_

_Menina, olhe pra frente_

_Oh! menina, todo cuidado_

_Não queira dormir no ponto_

_Seguro o jogo, atenção_

_De manhã_

Charlie just danced, uncoordinated, with Salem for the whole two minutes of the song, punctuating each of her missteps with genuine laughter. Without realizing, Mia touched the screen before her, wishing she could join her, wishing the song was right. In the morning, happiness would come, no matter how much it scared her.

The video ended with Charlie letting Salem go to the floor. As soon as the cat ran away from the room, Charlie turned to the camera and shrugged, as if Mia was there to share the joke with her.

Mia watched Charlie dance five more times that evening.

***

That week, Spencer went with the BAU team to Santa Fe. He tried to call Amélia every night, due to the time difference making calling her in the morning harder. On the second day of his trip, she ranted about her despise for Thanksgiving and asked him to bring her Native American art, if he happened to encounter some, so she could hang it in her office and fight the Pilgrim hats her colleague was _subjecting her_ to. He laughed. And then she changed her tone completely when she spoke again.

_"I met Penelope."_

"What? How?" He asked, sitting up on his bed and feeling his heart hammering in his chest.

_"She paid me a visit. She's still working on Charlie's case, but I assume you already know this..."_

"Amélia..."

_"No hard questions, don't worry. I… I'm not upset that you didn't give me any details about this. I just wanted you to express my gratitude to her as soon as possible, since she left me with no means to make contact."_

"Can I ask you what you are grateful for?"

_"She gave me something from Charlie. A video she had recorded, for me. It's some sort of a goodbye video she planned after Natalya died. It really won't be useful to your investigation, I think. But it helped me already."_

Her voice was tender and free from tears. One last message, made just for her. He would have to talk to Penelope about her reaching out to Amélia without telling him. They needed to keep an open channel amongst the conspirators, Spencer thought.

_"Are you upset?"_ She asked, as if she had heard his thoughts.

"It's stupid."

_"What is stupid, Spencer?"_

"I understand why Penelope sought you out, I really do."

_"But…?"_

"Please, don't take this the wrong way."

_"Spencer..."_

"I had a whole thing in my mind about how you would meet my friends."

Amélia chuckled on the phone.

_"Well, I am sure that this didn't exactly qualify as meeting her. She was in my office for, what, ten minutes?"_

He still had that ridiculous feeling in his stomach.

_"Show me yours and I'll show you mine."_

"W-what?"

Amélia laughed again, louder this time.

_"I'm not talking about sex, Spencer. Not right now, at least. I mean, tell me your fantasy of how this should go with me and your cop friends and I'll tell you my fantasy of how this should go with you and my communist parents and anarchist friends. Besides the one who already knows you and so far refuses to accept our relationship because All Cops Are Bastards."_

"I'm not a cop. None of my friends are."

_"Potato, potato… Come on. Do you want me to go first?"_

"Fine, go first."

_"My birthday is in January. Assuming you're able to get a day off, and assuming that we managed to make this work until then, I would throw some smallish thing for my favorite people and you would be there. We would let them know about your PhDs before sharing the news of you being a FBI Agent, obviously, and we would hope for the best."_

"January?"

_"Yes, do you think it's too soon?"_

Now Spencer felt especially stupid.

"No, I mean. Yeah, three months sounds reasonable. Especially considering that your friends will probably hate me."

_"They won't hate_ you _, they just hate your job._ "

He could hear the unspoken part: she hated his job too. A part of him twinged with the realization that she wasn't entirely sure they could survive three months together. Another part of him felt resentment bubbling inside at having her treat his job like it was some character flaw. And this other part was getting fed up by his unspoken shame of having nurtured fantasies of inviting her to go with him to Rossi's Thanksgiving celebration by the end of that month.

A holiday she hated, in a room filled with people whose jobs she despised, and before they even had an one-month anniversary.

_"Show me yours now, Spencer._ "

"I'm tired, Amélia, it's past midnight and I have to be up again in less than seven hours. We will talk more another time. Good night."

***

Mia refused to be rattled by the fact that Spencer hadn't called her on Friday nor any other day over the weekend. He barely answered her texts, saying that he was "really busy" with the case. Perhaps she pushed him too much on their last phone call, perhaps she should have dropped the matter and not mentioned her plans for January. Was January too soon? She had no idea. No one had ever introduced her as their girlfriend to unknown friends before.

As a matter of fact, Mia's love life had always been a trainwreck.

She kissed a boy for the first time when she was a sophomore in college. He was a 21 year-old senior at the first party she went to, without her parents permission. He was a frat guy, so Mia was beyond herself when he offered her beer. Her memories after that were hazy until her friend, who was like an older sister to her, pulled her from underneath him in a guest room and took her away from there. Her top was up and she had a hickey on her neck, but her pants were still in place. It was also the last time she went to a college party.

Mia became really closed-off after this episode and this was what made her parents agree that she needed therapy. It was her therapist who explained to her that what she experienced was sexual assault and she was a survivor. Her parents never knew about this. No one did before Charlie.

The first time a girl liked her back was at NYU. Mia was really high at a party a girl from her activist group had thrown and this girl, with beautiful dark eyes, kissed her first. They went to Mia's dorm room after that and this was also her first time. In the morning, Mia was in love and the girl was over her.

During her NYU years, she had a string of flings in which Mia fell hard for people who just kind of liked her or thought she was hot. The worst of them was when she was the unicorn in a fake-polyamorous relationship between a straight guy and a bisexual girl. They only called her when they were very high and Mia would always go to them, because no one else called her anyway.

She knew Charlie's family when they were just friends and, during all the seven months they were together, Charlie eluded family celebrations, taking Mia on trips with her instead. They shared the same group of friends, so no one was introduced to anyone there either.

After Charlie broke things off with her, Mia derailed. For three months, she drank too much and partied too hard, having sex with meaningless strangers and crying alone in the shower afterwards. Then she went back to therapy once more.

Until Spencer, she had gone on a few dates with random people, but she had never let anyone in. She shouldn't be surprised that he was regretting their entanglement. Mia had heard more than once when people broke up with her that she was "too intense", "too much", and variations on that theme.

Or, perhaps, and this was the possibility that scared her the most, Eleanor was right and Spencer was actually another crooked cop. Perhaps he just wanted to fuck her and his scared boy act was just that, an act, and he was only interested in her when she was a fragile thing under his thumb. Perhaps he was working on a new prey already.

Ok, that hypothesis was _insane_ and Mia was clearly projecting everything that happened with Charlie on him. Eleanor was known to be the most paranoid of her friends, and the one who disliked cops the most, so Mia should take her point of view with a grain of salt.

She was trying really hard to not focus on these thoughts as she walked inside the very elitist and exclusive country club where Matt had scheduled their lunch on Monday.

She dressed in cocktail attire, with a deep blue A-line designer dress Charlie had gifted her years ago so she could go to a tea party thrown by Laura. And heels, obviously she had to wear delicate heels for this. She felt like an overdressed doll, worried about not getting wrinkles in her dress on the short car ride from her home to the club. Matt had sent a car to pick her up for their appointment, to her dismay.

The Congressional Country Club was the natural habitat for capitol politicians to unwind and hone their donors while practicing their golf game. Mia never imagined she would step foot in there. Matt's personal assistant waited for her by the door with a polite smile. He guided her to a lavishly decorated restaurant, where Matt already awaited her at their table.

He looked nothing like the man from the week before. All fragility had been washed away and replaced by the shiny politician smile that made his turquoise eyes sparkle.

"Amelia, it's so nice to see you again," he stood up for her while the waiter pulled the chair for Mia to sit. "I want to apologize for dragging you here, but my day is packed with meetings in the club, so my chief of staff thought it would be more practical if we ate lunch in the club's restaurant. The chef makes an amazing steak."

She was still taking everything in, but, before she could say anything else, Matt kept going.

"You aren't vegetarian, are you?"

"No, I..." Mia picked up the menu, trying to think of what she wanted to eat.

"Mike," Matt turned to the waiter standing by their table. "We will want two Wagyu steaks. Medium rare. Mine will have a side of truffle fries and, for the lady… Salad, right?" He asked, but he didn't wait for her answer. "She will have a salad. To drink, bring us a bottle of 1982 Château Petrus."

"Do you want the wine before your meal or to accompany it, sir?" Mike asked Matt, taking notes of his order.

"You can bring the wine now, Mike. It's 1 p.m., and I need to relax." With that, Matt looked at Mia and winked at her, like there was some private joke going on and she wasn't in the loop of it.

"Very well then. I'll be back in a moment with your beverage, sir."

With that, the waiter left, without having looked at Mia a single time during this whole interaction.

"So, Amelia, tell me a bit more about yourself."

After waiting for a few moments to be sure that Matt would really be silent to listen, Mia spoke.

"For starters, I also like fries with my steak. And I want a glass of water."

Matt's eyebrows raised on his forehead and there was a delighted smile on his lips. He briefly raised his hand and another waiter materialized beside their table.

"Yes, Representative Bradford?" The young man asked.

Matt folded his arms on his chest and leaned back in his chair, not saying anything.

"Hi, excuse me," Mia called for the waiter's attention. The boy turned to look at her as if she was a ghost. Mia read his nametag. "Hi, Walt. There was a small misunderstanding with my order and I would like to switch my salad for fries too, if that's not an inconvenience."

"Not at all, ma'am."

"I would like a glass of water too, please."

"Flat or sparkling?"

"From the tap is great, actually."

This made Matt snort and the boy look at her in absolute dismay.

"We… Don't serve tap water to our guests here, ma'am."

"Is Evian ok for you, Amelia?" Matt asked her.

"Yes. A bottle of Evian, then, will be great, Walt. Thank you."

When the waiter left, Matt leaned in to the table, studying her.

"So, my first lesson in Amelia Ferrera is that you don't like it when men order for you at restaurants," he said, with a grin on his face.

This made Mia remember Spencer and she swallowed her frustration to focus on the blonde that was currently speaking to her.

"I have no qualms with people ordering for me, when they know how to do so."

"Noted," Matt chuckled. "So, tell me a bit about your future plans as the newest member of the Capitol's elite."

"They will probably disappoint you, Matt."

"Let's pretend that I'm a more reasonable man than you seem to think that I am and that I just want to know your plans to help you achieve your goals, shall we?"

"I will donate the townhouse to the NGO I'm a member of, the No Borders organization. I'll pay for the necessary renovations and turn it into a shelter for the queer youth of color we help there." It was really weird that Matthew, of all people, was the first one to hear her say those words out loud.

To his credit, Matt didn't seem that shocked by the idea.

"Huh," he said, cocking his head to the side. "Yeah, I thought you would be one of those."

"Those?" Mia asked, not sure if he was paying her a compliment or insulting her.

"Charitable folk."

Mia blinked a few times.

"I… It's not exactly charity. It's a private initiative giving means to a mutual-aid group to step in and do the work the State should be doing," she said, defensive. "Charity implies that I think that I'm superior to these people, somehow."

There was a devilish grin on Matthew's face.

"Well, that may be what you need to tell yourself to sleep better at night, but the truth is that, if you want your little pet project to get off the ground, you will need to be a little nicer from now on to the people that can help you get funding and deal with permits, those things."

"Such as yourself, that's what you mean."

"Precisely."

"And, to do so, I need to call my redistribution of wealth 'charity'?"

Mike came back with their wine and Mia's water and served Matthew's glass first, for his appraisal, and, when he approved the wine, the boy filled their glasses and retreated. Matt took a sip of his wine and his eyes fluttered with the pleasure.

"Have you ever drank Château Petrus, Amelia?" He asked, completely ignoring her prior question.

"Yes, I have. I think I first had a glass of it on your father's birthday, in 2012. It's an excellent wine."

It was, in fact, a delicious wine. They had a few bottles of it in the townhouse's cellar, but Mia hadn't opened one in a long time. Matt took another long sip of his glass.

"Amelia, look, I get that you want to transform the townhouse into a shelter for, you know..." Matt stopped talking, as if the rest of the sentence was made of dirty words.

"Queer youth of color," Mia finished the sentence for him.

She drank a little more of her wine. With the way this conversation was going, she would need it.

"Yes, yes. I get it. You being a lesbian and all..."

"I'm not a lesbian," she interrupted him.

Matt furrowed his brows, confused.

"What? I thought you were my sister's secret widow or something."

"We dated for seven months back in 2012 and we were best friends afterwards."

He narrowed his eyes, as if Mia had just told him she was a flat earther.

"...But you're not a lesbian?"

"No."

There was an uncomfortable stretch of silence in which Mia wondered if she should let him squirm much longer. She took another sip of her wine and decided that the lunch and the bottle of Château Petrus he was paying for her gave him the right to some patience on her part.

"I'm bisexual, Matt. I don't care for my partners' genders, I care for them as people."

Matt seemed less confused then, but there was still something in his eyes that Mia couldn't quite pinpoint.

"Right, that. So, as I was saying, your goals and motives sound very honorable. I just think that you should consider, instead of burning through every dollar my sister has left you, accepting your new place in the elite now and using it for the greater good."

"And what would be the greater good, Matthew?" Now it was Mia who was feeling defensive.

"Make other rich people open their wallets too and share the burden with you."

"Ok, this is the point where I ask you: how do I do that?"

"I'm glad you asked. I think you should create a foundation in my sister's name and throw a charity gala to raise funds for your shelter. I will help you." He pushed his empty glass of wine to the side and Walt refilled it. "I mean, Becky and her team can help you."

Mia drank in silence for a moment, studying him.

"And what will that cost me?"

He chuckled again.

"You're already thinking like one of us, Amelia. Not much, just sharing the spotlight with me and my family. This will help me increase my popularity with your demographic for future elections."

"I thought you were a conservative Democrat, Matt. What will your electorate think if they know you're all friendly with queer Latines?" Mia teased him, but she was actually serious about her question.

Matt put down his glass of wine and looked at her, straight-faced.

"Democracy means ruling for all, Amelia. Like I told you before, I want to honor my sister's memory and helping you with your project means killing two birds with one stone. So, will you let me help you or not?"

They discussed plans and the basic steps to throw a charity function while they ate their impossibly tender steaks and delicious fries. Mia excused herself to go to the toilet after she finished her third glass of wine. She needed to throw water on her wine flushed face.

On her way back to the table, she was still dizzy and distracted, and bumped shoulders with someone taller and stronger than her.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she muttered, raising her head to face the man in front of her. "Senator Hawthorne?"

From that short distance, she could see that his small intelligent eyes were blue as the clear winter sky.

"Doctor Amelia! What brings you here?" He gave her a shiny smile, much akin to Matt's.

"I'm having lunch with Matt... Representative Bradford today at the restaurant."

"Fascinating. Well, Doctor, the restaurant is actually the other way around."

"Oh no," she hid her face in her hands. "It's really embarrassing not being able to handle my wine."

"Nonsense, anyone can get drunker than planned when trying to keep up with Representative Bradford," he said, with a chuckle. "And I'll assume this is your first time here. Getting lost in these hallways is an easy task even when sober. Come on, Doctor, let me escort you back to your table."

Mia accepted the arm Senator Hawthorne offered her and let him guide her through the maze of hallways in the club. He seemed to be stealing glances to look at her every opportunity he had. His clear blue eyes seemed to pierce through her skin and made her blush again, this time not due to the wine.

"If I may be so forward, Doctor, you should consider dressing more like this," he said, at some point. "A lady should look like one."

It was her time to chuckle.

"You think I'm a lady, Senator?"

He stopped walking. There were mirrors on each side of that hallway and Mia could see infinite versions of herself reflected there, under the intent eye of endless versions of Senator Ted Hawthorne. For a fleeting moment, she thought he looked at her neck with special interest.

"Only a fool wouldn't see that when looking at you, Amelia." Her heart skipped a beat with his words. "But let's not dwell too long here or Matt will send a search party to retrieve you from my claws."

Matt got up with a laugh when he saw Hawthorne entering the room with Mia on his arm.

"Theodore Hawthorne, you old rascal! I can't let a pretty woman out of my sight for a moment before you go and charm her with your ways?!"

The men exchanged that weird half-embrace typical of the straights that Mia could never fully comprehend while she stood beside them, silent as a doll.

"Now, now. I was just escorting Doctor Ferrera back to you in safety, Matt." With this, he turned to Mia, taking her hand to his lips. "Doctor, it was a pleasure to see you again."

"Thank you very much for your help, Senator. I was completely lost before you found me," Mia blabbered, still very confused by this whole interaction.

Hawthorne's smile in return, however, could power a whole neighborhood.

"It's been my pleasure, really. I hope we will cross paths again very soon." His voice was very soft when talking to her. And then, turning to Matt, he changed demeanors again. "Matt, you still owe me a game, don't you think I forgot."

"Ask your assistant to call mine and we will schedule it."

They shook hands and Hawthorne left.

"Well, well, well… Who would have guessed that Senator Hawthorne could have a thing for you?" Matt said to her in a conspiratorial tone, as they went back to their table.

"What do you mean by that?" Mia asked him, curious, but also wanting to change this subject soon.

"Let's just say that Ted always had a strong preference for blondes."

***

They were dealing with a missing kid case in Maryland since Monday morning, after coming back home on Friday. Spencer was forced by JJ to eat lunch around 4 p.m. They sat on their desks and ate the leftovers of the chicken casserole Will had made on the weekend while trying to not think about the ticking clock hanging over their heads to get the five year-old boy back home safely. Spencer thought about his own mother and decided to call her and check-in on her. When he got his phone from his pocket, he saw a missed call and a voicemail from Amélia. He would deal with that later.

He called Diana's care home number and chatted with his mom for about fifteen minutes before they had to run back to the case again.

They found the boy about four hours later. As suspected, his biological father had kidnapped him and planned to move to Argentina with the kid because he was dissatisfied with the custody arrangement and the prominent role the boy's stepfather was having in his life.

Before heading back home, he checked his phone. There was a sequence of texts from Amélia, sent at 6:22 p.m.

"pls, don't listen to the message

i was drunk

if u have listened to it already, i'm sorry

saudade"

He dialed his inbox.

_"So you didn't pick up the phone. Again."_ Her voice was slurry on the call. _"Listen, Spencer, you… You can't do that to me, ok? You can't go from… To the silent treatment. You just can't. If you want to break up with me, do it, but don't ghost me. And, you know, if you don't want to break up with me, you need to fucking talk to me and tell me what's going on. But just don't toy with me, Spencer, I'm too old for this."_

***

Mia was eating ice cream and grading midterm papers in her fluffy bathrobe when her doorbell rang. It was late already and she wasn't expecting any visits.

On the other side of the door was Spencer, wrapped up in his coat and scarf under the fine November rain. Mia held her doorknob even stronger, bracing herself for what was to come.

"You heard the voicemail," she eventually said.

"Yes." His breath came out in smoke when he spoke and Mia walked to the side, to let him in her house if he wanted to. He didn't move. "I am an FBI agent, Amélia."

"I was aware of this fact already."

"And you hate my job."

She let out a tired sigh and embraced herself, starting to shiver.

"No, I don't. Can you please get in? It's really cold outside."

His hair was damp when he entered her hallway. He closed the door behind him, but didn't take off his coat. So that was the end of them, Mia thought, feeling sad already.

"You told me so already when we first met. I should have heard you back then." He wasn't looking at her when he spoke, instead he focused his gaze on a painting Laura's interior decorator had picked for the hallway.

"It's a very complicated feeling, to be honest. I don't _like_ any law enforcement, Spencer, it's not directed at you or your team. And, as I also told you when we first met, I think that the BAU isn't the worst..."

He laughed bitterly, and ran a hand through his hair.

"So you don't think that my job is _the worst_ , how comforting."

"Is _that_ what this is about?" Mia asked, feeling hurt. "You gave me the cold shoulder for four days because I'm exactly the person you knew I was before you even met me? What were you expecting would happen if we started dating, Spencer?"

He looked at her then, and there was anger in his eyes.

"I don't know!" He cried, frustrated. "Not the news that your friends will hate me before they even meet me, who knows if they ever will meet me, if you're not too embarrassed by our relationship to introduce me."

"Me?! Embarrassed? What the hell, Spencer? We agreed to keep this quiet because we are in a very gray area of legality _for you_ , if I remember things correctly." She turned her back to him and walked to the dinner table, getting her ice cream and walking with it to the freezer so it wouldn't melt.

She could hear him taking off his coat and following her in silence.

"You think we won't last," he said, accusatorially.

Mia closed her fridge door with strength and turned to look at him again.

"Not with you behaving like that we won't," she sneered back.

"Like what?"

"You _can't_ shut me out, Spencer!" It was her turn to scream in frustration. "It's really shitty of you to lash out against me with silence because you felt bad with something I did! You need to tell me when you don't like something, this is how these things _work_!"

"You need to support me!" He screamed back. "This job takes everything from me every day and you will need to be more flexible in your beliefs and support me because your opinion matters _a lot_ to me!" 

Mia was breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Spencer was the first to disarm his posture.

"Amélia..." He took a step closer to her. "I need you."

So this was their end.

Mia took off her glasses, putting them down on the table top, and closed the distance between them. She kissed him, clashing their bodies with all the anger she felt. Spencer held her tight against his warming body and didn't stop her when she started to undo his tie. Mia didn't have the patience to unbutton his shirt, so she just pulled it out from his pants and unbuckled his belt. Spencer lifted her and sat Mia on the edge of her dinner table. He pushed her bathrobe down on her shoulders and his mouth went to her left breast, kissing and sucking her nipple. Mia opened his zipper and pushed his pants down, holding his hardening cock in her hand and moving her wrist tentatively. He hissed against her sternum and his hands spread her legs before he crouched on the floor before her.

Spencer put her legs over his shoulders and pressed a wet kiss against her pussy. Mia arched her back and pushed his hair out of his face while he ate her out. He parted her folds with his fingers and he alternated sucking on her labia with painting broad strokes on her with his tongue. Mia was half-laying on the table, eyes fluttering closed every time Spencer darted closer to her clit and diverted to focus on her vaginal entrance and labia again. In her fogged state, Mia heard a rhythmic sound over the wet noises he made on her.

"Don't you dare come," she hissed, tugging on his hair. "Not until I come first."

Spencer's right hand went to her hip then and he latched on her clit, sucking and licking her until Mia saw stars behind her eyes. He didn't stop after Mia's first orgasm and kept his face buried between her thighs, kissing her as if this could stop time for them.

She was boneless when he finally stopped, two more orgasms later, and climbed his way up to her face on the table. Mia licked the rest of her from his lips and chin. She, too, wanted to trick time for as long as she could. He kissed her while his hands worked the wrapper from his condom.

Spencer slid inside Mia and rested his elbows on the table, his hands carefully pillowing her head so she wouldn't hit it on the cold hardwood each time he shortly rolled his hips. Mia embraced him with her arms and legs, trying to bury him inside her, make them be just one being and never have to worry about the real consequences of the world again. It was the end, she knew.

"Please, Amélia..." He whispered in the shell of her ear. "I need you."

Mia's hands sneaked under his shirt and scratched his back. She bit his shoulder through the cotton so she wouldn't give him everything she had.

"Please..." Spencer pleaded one more time.

"Come for me, my pet," she said, in a sultry voice.

He dragged himself in and out of her a few more times until he came with a low throaty sound. Mia let go of him and rolled to the side, reached for her glasses and sat up on the table top, adjusting her bathrobe once again. She could hear him breathing hard, unmoving.

"I will never be able to support the FBI," she finally said in a voice so small she could barely recognize herself. "I can turn a blind eye, bite my tongue more often, make a huge anthropological effort to see your friends as more than law enforcement… I can even say that, between serial killers and your team, I choose your team. But you can't ask me to go beyond that, because I won't." She took a deep and shaky breath. "You can't ask me to accept who you are completely at the expense of giving up who I am. Either we meet in the middle, or there's no working out."

The silence stretched between them. Mia wouldn't let him see her cry. He might have met her in a very fragile moment of her life, but she was no delicate flower. She was a warrior, forged by generations of fighters resisting imperialism. She raised her chin instead, although she couldn't turn to look at him while she waited. An unstoppable force had met an immovable object.

She heard the sounds of him taking the condom off, dressing himself again, and saw him walking to the trash to throw it away. How mundane life could be in comparison to the big and all consuming feelings Mia had. She breathed slowly, waiting. If it was the wolf or the girl meeting his stare when he turned was still unclear. He crowded her by the table and rested his forehead against hers.

"I want you," he said. "I want to be with you."

"This is me, Spencer," she said back, caressing his shoulders. "This is everything I have to offer to you."

"Please, don't hate my friends," he whispered.

Mia laughed, honest.

"I will give you my word that I won't project any of my prior issues onto them, is that good enough?"

"Yes."

She embraced him and kissed his neck.

"Spencer?"

"Hm?"

"If you ever give me the silent treatment again, you're dead to me."

He held her tight and kissed her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] A Gabriel García Márquez [novel,](https://www.amazon.com.br/Love-Cholera-Gabriel-Garcia-Marquez/dp/0307389731/ref=asc_df_0307389731/?tag=googleshopp00-20&linkCode=df0&hvadid=379726156276&hvpos=&hvnetw=g&hvrand=10885582440551407809&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvqmt=&hvdev=c&hvdvcmdl=&hvlocint=&hvlocphy=1001655&hvtargid=pla-479592269684&psc=1) centering the love story of Florentino and Fermina, that spans through over 50 years in an imagined Colombia. A master of Latin American literature and magical realism, Márquez guides us through a love that wasn't possible in youth, but finally finds its place when Florentino and Fermina are elders.
> 
> [2] Brazilian composer Tom Zé wrote the song ["Vai, Menina"](https://open.spotify.com/track/6A7bFw2HCDcINCCQc8YrMb) about... If you said "the Brazilian dictatorship", you gain this round of bingo. The slogan of the regime back then was "Brazil, love it or leave it" and there was this national feeling of compulsory happiness. The song is ambiguous, it can be about eventually overcoming the regime when true happiness arrives or it can be about the horrors of being forced to be happy when everything is going to hell. I thought it was a fitting song for Mia and Charlie's relationship and this story.


	18. The final wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first she could not see anything plainly, because the windows were shut. After some moments she began to perceive that the floor was all covered over with clotted blood, on which lay the bodies of several dead women, ranged against the walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank Jackie as my super amazing Beta, as always, and, today there's a special thanks to [copperleaves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperleaves/pseuds/copperleaves) for her help too! Check her fanfics, they're great and she's way more a Criminal Minds expert than I am ;)

Winter came while Mia moved out and had weekly meetings with Becca and her team. So they could have time to organize everything, it was decided that the event to gather funds for the shelter and the Charlotte Bradford Foundation would be a Carnival masquerade. The ball would take place on February 12th, the Friday after Carnival, at one of DC's largest and most expensive venues. Five hundred people would attend, and pay dearly to do so, Becca assured her.

In late November, Mia moved to a two-bedroom apartment with a small terrace. She sold the expensive Porsche and bought a more sensitive and environmentally-friendly car. In early December, the main research and advocacy team from No Borders went to the Senate hearing to present their data and propositions to help DREAMers get their citizenship more easily.

"So, pants," a familiar voice said, standing closer to her as she got herself a glass of water during a break.

Ted Hawthorne had an empty paper cup in his hands, waiting behind Mia for his turn with the water cooler. She frowned at him, confused.

"I don't think I..." She started saying.

Ted broadly pointed at her suit.

"I mean, they're very nice pants, but they don't flatter you like the blue dress."

She took a step back from the water cooler, making way for him to pour a glass for himself.

"I had no idea you were interested in women's fashion, Senator."

Ted chuckled and shook his head, like Mia had just told him a joke.

"I'm not." He took a sip of his water and gave her a small courteous nod. "I'll go back inside now. It was nice seeing you again, Doctor."

In late December, Mia paid for Margarida and Eduardo to come visit for the holidays. They stayed in a five-star hotel and did all the touristy things they had never done in DC before. Her parents were very suspicious of this inheritance and very sure that it all could turn to dust at the blink of an eye. On Christmas Eve, at midnight, Mia gave them the papers Ishaan had drawn up for her. With a few million dollars less in her accounts, Mia's parents now had stability and comfort for the rest of their lives. And she was, finally, free of her financial burdens to them. Although she missed them dearly in daily life, Mia was glad they could only stay for a week, due to her grandmother's needs. They were _a lot_ and couldn't stop asking her questions about her plans for the future, when she would visit Rio again, and who was her mysterious boyfriend who travelled for work even during Christmas and couldn't meet her parents.

"Não estamos reclamando, Melinha, veja bem. Eu sempre soube que você ia, eventualmente, conhecer um homem que te desse jeito, sabe?" Eduardo said to her at Christmas dinner, already drunk.

Mia bit the inside of her cheek to keep her face as straight as her father wished she could be.

"Eu acho que você vai ficar bastante desapontado nesse sentido com o Spencer, pai," she said back. He, obviously, still had no idea that her gringo boyfriend was an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Mia doubted that the fact of being a man could save Spencer from the fact of being a cop, in her father's eyes. "Ele não é nem um pouco o homem macho que você espera. E está muito longe de dar qualquer _jeito_ em mim."

"Mima, você precisa me dar a receita desse seu doce! Eu vou tentar fazer em casa para a vovó!" [1] Margarida interrupted them before the dinner transformed into a screaming match.

***

Amélia opened the door to her apartment dressed beautifully in a deep green velvet dress and let Spencer in. Christmas Day was almost at an end and he had ditched the small gathering at Rossi's a little earlier than usual to go visit her. The team had come back from a case in Hawaii in the late hours of Christmas Eve and Spencer was counting down the minutes to see her ever since.

"It's really not your fault, but I'm in a terrible mood," she said, as she walked barefoot to her living room and poured a glass of champagne for herself.

He took off his purple scarf, overcoat, and suit jacket and hung them by her door before following her. He also took off his shoes, since her house had a no outside shoes policy. Salem showed up to rub himself against Spencer's legs and greet him.

"Are you drinking water too, sweetheart?" He carefully asked, as he approached her.

She pouted her bright red lip at him and took another sip of champagne.

"Fine, I'll drink a glass of water after this one," she grunted.

Her mental health had increased significantly with her moving from the townhouse and adding her own personal touches to her apartment. He tenderly smiled at her when she put the champagne glass back on the coffee table to lace her arms around his neck.

"What could have ruined your mood on Christmas? I thought this was your favorite holiday, my little anarchist," he teased her, gently kissing her cheekbone.

"Aren't you the profiler?" She tried to still sound moody, but failed.

"You shouldn't let your father get under your skin like that." He kissed her jaw.

"He said you are turning me into a straight girl," she said, upset.

Spencer chuckled against her neck and kissed her there too.

"Well, it's amazing how people can be so terribly wrong about things." He let his hands travel along her back and gave a soft bite on Amélia's neck, she sighed. "If you fuck my ass tonight, will this improve your mood?"

She laughed, surprised.

"Doctor Reid! Are you proposing that I peg you just so we can show my father? What would Doctor Freud say of this, my dear pet?" She teased him, feigning shock and taking a hand to her chest, as if she was clutching an imaginary pearl necklace.

"Something something Electra Complex, I suppose," he answered her, faking seriousness.

Amélia laughed again before kissing him, smearing red lipstick over his lips and chin.

"Merry Christmas to me then," she said, biting his chin and pulling his sweater out of his pants.

She kissed him more forcefully before stepping back so he could take it off.

"On one hand, I want to unwrap my Christmas gift," she said in contemplation, with one finger on her chin. "On the other, I should go to the bedroom and get all the things we will need."

"I can undress by myself, Amélia. I have been doing it successfully for the past thirty years." Spencer raised one eyebrow as he started to unbutton his shirt.

"No, no, no! It's _my_ Christmas gift!" She batted his hands away. "Ok, I have decided. You will come with me to the bedroom and sit on the bed like a good boy while I make everything nice and cozy for us."

Amélia took his hand in hers and guided them to her bedroom. It was roughly the size of her old bedroom in the townhouse and she had placed a king sized bed in the middle of it, where Spencer sat while Amélia opened her sex toy drawer and rummaged through it. She had taken clean towels from the closet and thrown them on the bed before.

"Tell me, pet, how big is Santa's sugar cane for the good boys?" She asked without turning to look at him.

"I think the purple one will do today, don't you?"

Amélia turned to look at him with a wolfish smile on her lips, holding her leather harness with one hand and her thick and rugged silicone dildo with the other. Not the cozy purple he had suggested, but the bright red one.

"The purple one doesn't bring up Christmas joy to me. Get the lube in the drawer, please."

"Compensating for something today, are we?" He teased her, reaching for her first drawer on the bedside table and getting the water based lube from it.

When he turned to look at her again, Amélia was very close to him and looking serious. She threw the harness, the dildo, and a third toy on the bed and tilted his chin so he would look into her dark eyes.

"Strip for me, pet," she commanded.

Spencer felt a shiver run through his spine and obeyed her, unbuttoning his shirt under her intent stare. Amélia unzipped her dress and let it pool on the floor at her feet as he threw his shirt to the side. She was wearing lace golden lingerie underneath it.

"Merry Christmas to me then," he repeated her words back at her, feeling his throat very dry.

He unbuckled and took his pants off so quickly he almost got trapped in them.

"Go to the top of the bed." Amélia tilted her head to the side, as if she was appraising him. As if Spencer was really just her plaything. He loved it when they played this game.

When he was resting his back against her various throw pillows, Amélia stepped out of her dress and got the toy from the bed. It was a small, remote operated, vibrator. Without saying a word, she put one leg on the bed, pushed her panties to the side, and inserted it inside herself. Spencer watched it disappear between her labia and the outside part nest itself against her glistening clit before Amélia adjusted her lingerie again and planted her foot on the floor.

"The control is in the drawer," she said and Spencer rolled to the side to get it. "Do you want to prepare yourself with the lube or you want me to do that for you?"

He considered his options. Usually, he didn't really enjoy when people masturbated or performed oral sex on him. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and without anything else to do besides letting his mind run free through infinite facts and scenarios. This night, however, he was really invested in playing along with the whole Christmas gift thing Amélia had created. He felt a blush spread through his chest and neck and his penis twitched in anticipation for what was to come.

"If it's my gift too, then I think you should take care of me," he said and his voice was shaky.

Amélia climbed on the bed and over him, until her face was very close to his.

"Can I put my mouth on you?" She gently asked, breaking character for a moment.

He nodded.

"Please, touch me. I really need it, Amélia."

She dove in and kissed him again, gentle at first, but then she pinched his nipple and Spencer moaned against her mouth. Amélia kissed his neck and carefully bit him there until she got to his chest, where she increased the pressure with her lips and teeth, making sure she was leaving several purple marks over him.

"My gift, my pet," she said before licking his nipple. "So good, such a good boy."

Spencer was fisting the comforter, and using all his self-control to not touch her back nor start playing with the remote control before she authorized him. Amélia was licking and kissing his navel now and Spencer breathed through his teeth. Instead of taking his penis in her mouth, Amélia kissed and caressed the sensitive skin on his inner thigh. She playfully bit him there while her hands roamed across his skin, touching his legs and his torso, but completely avoiding his sex.

He was leaking seminal fluid already when her hand enveloped his penis and she licked a stripe from his perineum to his glans. She pushed his foreskin down and her thumb spread his fluid over its head before her tongue touched him. Amélia wrapped her lips around his glans and sucked and lapped at it. Spencer whimpered when she relaxed her jaw and took more of him in her mouth. She flattened her tongue and pulsated it, teasing the vein he had on the underside of his penis. Giving up his self-control, Spencer pressed the button on the remote and turned on the toy inside Amélia. She moaned and the vibration of the sound against his skin made his eyes roll back.

But then she took her mouth off of him and laughed softly while her nose nuzzled his balls.

"So you decided to be a naughty boy today, huh?"

"Are you going to..." He gasped in the middle of his sentence because Amélia had just licked his asshole. "Punish me, Professor?"

"Maybe later… Right now, I'm really enjoying myself eating your butt." She said.

She pushed his legs to his chest and looked at him like a cat who got the cream. Perhaps Spencer should consider letting Amélia do this more often.

"Well, since you turned this thing on, go ahead and see how fast you can make me come, Doctor." She had one eyebrow raised and kissed one of his knees before laying on her belly between his legs again.

Spencer made the clit stimulator on Amélia start a stuttering rhythm, while the g-spot massager had a faster pace. She almost purred and she buried her nails in his thighs before she started to kiss his ass again. He whimpered when Amélia prodded his entrance with her tongue while her lips pressed against his sensitive skin.

Spencer heard the sound of lube being uncapped. And, soon, a lube-coated finger substituted her tongue and Amélia's mouth went to his scrotum, taking one of his balls in her mouth and rolling it inside with her tongue. He barely felt it when she added a second lubed finger inside him, after all, it hadn't been that long since she last fucked his ass. He increased the speed on her clit and Amélia released his ball from her mouth with a wet sound. She rested her head on his hip and moaned while she crooked her fingers and massaged his prostate. Spencer cried loudly, thrashing his head on the pillows and letting his free hand go to her head. His idea was to caress her, but then she increased the pace of her ministrations inside him and he just gripped her hair, feeling an orgasm coming close.

"Ame… Amélia… I'm… Please..." He couldn't be coherent anymore.

She went very still against him and let out a weak whimpering sound. He knew she had her first orgasm. He decreased the speed of the toy inside her so they could go on. Then Amélia removed her fingers from Spencer and he tried to not complain about being edged. He knew it would be even better to come while she pounded him. She gave a quick peck on his thigh and got to her knees.

He could hear the sounds of her placing the dildo in the harness and dressing in it before he turned his head on the pillows, dazed, to look at her.

"On your knees and elbows, Spencer." She gave a small smack on his butt before grabbing the bottle of lube and starting to coat the dildo with it. He frowned at her, usually they did it with him on his back, so he could hold and kiss her. "Naughty boys don't get to be kissed while their girlfriends fuck their asses."

Letting out a sigh, he did as he was told. He felt Amélia's hands rubbing his back and shoulders and then she softly kissed his spine.

"Are you ok with this?" She asked, breaking character once more.

He nodded.

"Just fuck me already," he used his most bratty voice.

She laughed and grabbed a handful of his hair, tugging on it. Spencer hissed, but the pain was good.

"I should give you a lump of coal, instead of letting you come today, pet," she said, lining up the dildo and sliding inside him. As an answer to her, Spencer increased the pace of the toy inside her once again. "Puta que..." [2] Amélia breathed out, gripping his hip and slamming her thighs against his.

He gasped and almost meowled when the dildo rubbed against his sensitive prostate. Amélia slid it out slowly and slid it in with strength once more, starting to fuck him at a punishing pace, never letting go of his hair.

"Eu vou arruinar essa sua bundinha gostosa. Vou te foder tanto que você não vai conseguir sentar amanhã, galeguinho." [3]

From the few words he could gather of what she was saying, Spencer felt his head get light and he knew he wouldn't last much longer. Amélia smacked his ass again, this time hard enough to burn and Spencer clenched around the dildo. Then Amélia let go of his hair and embraced him, biting his shoulder. The combination of pain and pleasure was enough to make him spill all over her comforter, crying out in one of the most powerful orgasms he ever had in his life.

He could barely have the presence of mind to roll to the side before collapsing on the bed, so he wouldn't lay on the puddle of his own semen. Amélia grabbed one of the towels and threw over the puddle to absorb it, then she opened the drawer on the bedside table and got wet wipes to gently clean Spencer while she whispered words of endearment in English and Portuguese against his skin. She took the remote from his hand and turned the toy off, and stripped herself completely before starting to clean and tidy everything up.

Amélia rolled Spencer like a ragdoll to take out the dirty comforter and throw a clean one over him. She left the room with the dirty clothes on her arms and Spencer could faintly hear the sounds of her putting her cutlery away and turning on her washing machine before dozing off.

He didn't know how long it took before she climbed into the bed with him again and spooned him, peppering kisses on his neck and shoulders. He entangled his fingers with hers on his chest and scooted even closer to her, feeling sated and safe.

"Eu acho que te amo," [4] he heard her whisper, before falling asleep.

***

Spencer managed to get the New Year's off and they decided to spend it alone at Amélia's place. He wanted to introduce her to his friends, but she feared it was yet too soon, so they threw their own small party and Amélia taught him a few rituals like eating twelve pomegranate seeds and making wishes for each month of the year.

"If only Persephone was Brazilian, Hades would have had her with him all the time," she joked before Spencer kissed her at midnight.

January started slowly, with a few uncomplicated cases, until Emma Sweeney, daughter of the FBI Washington Field Office Assistant Director in Charge, simply did not come back home after going out with her friends to a party on Friday, the 15th. She had turned 21 a few months before and, ever since, appeared to be invested in experimenting with all legal drugs possible. Emma also had multiple sexual partners and would often sleep at their houses. However, according to Mrs. Ava Sweeney, her mother, she would always text to warn them about changing plans so they wouldn't worry.

As soon as she didn't come home in the morning, Peter Sweeney called Emily to put her and her team in charge of bringing his daughter back home. Emma was his youngest, the only daughter of his marriage with Ava, although he had three older daughters from his first marriage.

Emma was a student at Georgetown, majoring in Psychology, and had average grades. Her friends, Mackenzie and Hope, were pretty hung over when Luke and JJ found them, and at first laughed the whole situation off. By their account, Emma had a secret date with her secret older crush who would finally fuck her after toying with her for weeks. None of them knew who the man was or where they were supposed to meet. They hadn't gone with her to the door to see how she had left.

Penelope found footage of her walking alone for a few blocks on the street until she got to a blind spot on the street and disappeared. While the CSU team canvassed the whole block trying to look for any material evidence of Emma's presence, Penelope was scanning every single car that crossed the nearest intersection where she was seen from the time Emma vanished forward.

Spencer had a horrible feeling in his stomach ever since he saw Emma's picture on the email Emily sent them with the assignment. She had alabaster skin, with rosy cheeks and lips. Her eyes were blue as the sky and her hair was naturally blonde. Looking at her tiny nose and happy smirk, Spencer knew before his mind even supplied him with the date: it had been a perfect six months since Natalya's death.

"Talk to me, kid," Rossi’s voice called him from his daydreaming. They were leaving one more fruitless interview with one of the guys Emma had had sex with before. They were all too young and too stupid.

"It's him," he said, filled with dread.

"Emma doesn't fit his victimology," Rossi countered. He knew who Spencer was talking about even though he gave no context. "She's not a hooker, not an immigrant."

"Neither was Charlotte."

"We don't know if he knew that," Rossi said.

"Regardless of knowing before or after, killing her must have changed him. After at least six years of obscurity, not being truly seen by anyone besides his faithful acolytes, he has finally known fame."

"Our profile of him and the suspect list indicates that he already knows fame very well."

"Not this type of fame. The capital of the free world has never feared him collectively before. It's him."

"We need to ask Garcia to pay special attention to our 9 men, then. Just in case you're right."

"For Emma's sake, let's hope that I'm not."

***

Mia woke up feeling happy and relaxed on Monday morning. It was her birthday and she had no classes, just papers to grade and the masquerade to plan. On Sunday, she had a birthday brunch with Eleanor, Ewa, Toshiro, Rachel, Kate, Daniel, Tiago, and Esther ― who wouldn't accept Mia calling her "Doctor Cohen" anymore ever since she had become a Professor too. It was lovely. Unfortunately, Spencer couldn't go. Emma Sweeney's disappearance meant that no FBI agent could have a single personal hour until she was safe and sound back at home.

She had been in Mia's class, "Colonialism, Sexism, and the Creation of the State", in the Spring semester of the prior year. Emma was a nice girl, when she wasn't high or hung over, and her "B" had been deserved, in the end. Mia was somewhat worried about Emma's safety, but she couldn't let herself be deeply affected by every blonde woman who didn't return home after Charlie's death or else her life would never move on.

To improve her mood even more, when she woke up that morning, DC was completely covered with a fresh layer of snow. She knew she should check her phone for birthday texts and see if her mom had called her already, but she put it off, enjoying a cup of hot chocolate on her couch with Salem on her lap while she just watched the world outside. She thought of Charlie. Not with deep pain, but with saudade and love.

After she took a shower, she decided it was time to start reading the texts and thanking everyone who remembered she was now 29 years-old. She opened her phone, saw her family's texts and answered them first. Then she called her mother who, like every year, told the story of Mia's birth in every embarrassing detail. Spencer hadn't sent anything yet, but she wouldn't worry, he was probably overworked with the case. Then she opened the group chat with Eleanor and Ewa, there were a ton of texts from them.

"Happy birthday, my dear friend! You're almost 30 now and thriving. I'm really happy to have you in my life and call you my friend. xoxo" Ewa wrote first, at 5 a.m. She was probably going in or out of surgery at that hour.

" **Mate! You're almost old now!**

**And to think that, when we met, you were like young Bambi learning how to walk!**

**This means I'm becoming an old woman too!"** Eleanor sent these texts at 8 a.m. And then, soon after, there were others, in a very different tone:

" **Ames, call me when you're up.**

**Call me first. Do not turn on the news, do you copy?**

**Maybe take a Xanax too.**

**Call me.**

**Amélia, call me as soon as you're up.** "

Mia dialed her as she asked, feeling her stomach in knots. Eleanor picked up on the first ring.

"Ellie, what's going on?"

_"Ok, Ames, you will probably see this one way or another, but that girl, Emma… She's dead."_

"Oh, poor thing. What happened to her?" Mia asked, feeling slightly sad.

_"I don't know details of what happened to her, but her body showed up as if it was a very disturbed person’s idea of a present."_

"What? What do you mean?"

_"Have you taken your Xanax already? Because, if you're going to Google it, you should. Someone took pictures of it and leaked them; it's all over the internet. It's really fucking dark."_

Mia got her emergency Xanax from her purse and took it with a glass of water.

"Ok, I'm medicated. Will you stay on the phone with me while I look at it or do you think I can handle this like a big girl?"

" _You definitely can't handle this like a big girl. I almost puked my breakfast and this thing didn't happen at my workplace."_

"Didn't happen... what?"

_"Oh, fuck. Yeah, I should have said that before. The psycho who killed her left the poor girl's corpse on the steps of Georgetown's chapel."_

"What?!"

Feeling herself shaking, Mia opened her laptop and typed the name "Emma Sweeney" in the search bar. She avoided the news with pictures, but even the sober newspapers shared more than enough.

A TRAGEDY HITS THE COUNTRY

The corpse of Emma Sweeney, 21, daughter of FBI Washington ADIC Peter Sweeney, was recovered earlier this morning in Georgetown

The article then explained that Emma's frozen corpse was found by a Georgetown janitor at 6 a.m on the steps of the Chapel. She had been left naked and tied up in intricate knots with red rope. The only apparent marks on her body were strangulation marks on her neck and, although the FBI hadn't issued any official statements yet, it appeared that this had been Emma's cause of death. Another detail stood out on the scene carefully set by whoever disposed of her body: over two dozen white English roses had been placed around her.

***

Twenty-nine English roses had been placed around Emma's corpse. A shiver, unrelated to the cold, ran through Spencer's body when he thought they were of the same species and color of the roses in Amélia's old garden, the ones she and Charlotte used to communicate with each other. And she was turning 29 that Monday. It was probably a weird coincidence. His ability to see patterns everywhere made him sometimes see them where there was none.

However, the red rope that tied Emma's corpse with army-level knots was made of silk. Her body had been cleaned with bleach, this time her painted nails had been trimmed post-mortem and Spencer could bet that, although the ME had already found evidence to support the idea that she had also been raped, they wouldn't find any usable semen on her. This was him. It was a taunt, but a calculated one. He wasn't trying to get caught, he was spitting in the face of the FBI and asserting his superiority.

Naked and dead, Emma seemed even younger. He would never get used to their faces. Mostly because he couldn't forget a single one of them.

"If no one else will say it, I will. This is the same unsub who killed Natalya, Charlotte, and the other eleven missing women," Rossi stated at the conference table.

"But, Rossi, beyond her physical appearance, Emma shares no overlap with this unsub’s victimology. She was not a pro and she was not an immigrant. And Natalya and Charlotte's bodies only appeared due to the framing of another individual with the former and the incompetent disposal with the latter," Luke said. "Emma's body was disposed of with surgical precision, but clearly on display, meant to be found. Unlike the eleven missing women, who, as of now, are still only missing, presumed dead. CSU couldn't find a single fiber our unsub didn't want to be found so far. There's absolutely no DNA, nothing. This could be a completely new unsub."

"It's him," Spencer said, more sure than ever. "Emma may not be a sex worker, but, she fits his physical type, and her murder comes right on schedule for his timeline. Perhaps, with Charlotte's murder, the lines got blurrier for him. He’s not specifically targeting sex workers anymore. Now it’s just your basic Puritanical moral crusade.”

"He's on a mission," JJ said. "Before, he was projecting his hatred against women onto high-risk victims and silently cleaning up DC, but Charlotte changed the game for him. He's now going after the daughters of the elite who, instead of performing what he considers their proper societal role, as they should, they’re behaving like prostitutes."

"But why this deviation in disposal sites? Why Georgetown? Why the roses?" Tara asked. "If it's really the same unsub... The rope, I get it, it’s his signature. The one detail we have never shared with the public so we could be sure that it was him, not Marino, all along. But the rest…? He really went overboard with the staging this time."

Rossi glowered at the crime scene photos and tossed one aside.

“So much for keeping things out of the press. They got everything this time: rope, roses, staging. These knots and the roses could be an evolving signature, but now that it’s all gone public he could change everything next time.”

“That’s a problem we’ll just have to deal with,” JJ said. “Maybe we can use the press coverage to our advantage somehow. Draw him out, engage with him.”

“That’s a good idea,” Emily said. “Let’s brainstorm some options.” She noticed Spencer’s pensive silence. "Spencer," Emily called him. "There's something on your mind."

"It's not relevant to the case," he said.

He wouldn't say out loud that he couldn't shake off the idea that this was connected to Amélia, somehow. Emily didn't seem to buy it, but she didn't press him.

"Alright, before we focus our efforts on this particular theory, let's go back over everything we know from the previous cases," Emily said, standing up. "No one will be punished if they’ve kept working the case on their personal time after Marino's arrest. Assistant Director Sweeney has made it clear that he wants all manpower directed to find whoever did this to his daughter, and that's what we're going to give him."

She was looking directly at Spencer, but it was Penelope who spoke first.

"That's great news, because I have totally been working on this case by myself since October." All heads turned to look at her.

Spencer used his hand to cover his mouth, trying to look nonchalant and keep his expression neutral so Penelope's gesture to protect him and Rossi wouldn't be wasted.

"Look, I consider it to be a personal attack when an electronic device doesn't bend to my will, so I kept cracking away at Charlotte's hard drive. I have decoded it all." Penelope shrugged, as if it was nothing.

"Tell me you have something for us to work on," Emily said.

"Oh, boss lady, I have _a lot_ for us to work on. Including a suspect list." Penelope leaned in over her laptop and connected a flashdrive to it.

On the projection screen, a password-protected file appeared. With her fast fingers, Penelope typed 21 digits as her password and clicked on what seemed to be the decrypted files from Charlotte's hard drive.

She opened the file with the ten names Charlotte had selected as her suspects.

  1. Dewayne Thomas, Head of Vice Presidential Protection Detail
  2. Erik Stein, CEO of Pfizer
  3. Ian T. Larsen, Judge, United States District Court for the District of Columbia 
  4. Justin Miller, media mogul, owner of News Inc.
  5. Louis Duvivier, French Ambassador
  6. Mark Newlands, Chief of the MPD
  7. Rep. Matthew G. Bradford
  8. Peter W. Sweeney, FBI Washington Field Office Assistant Director in Charge
  9. Steven White, M.D., Head of Neurosurgery at Virginia Hospital Center 
  10. Sen. Theodore P. Hawthorne IV



Since November, Rossi, Spencer, and Pelenope had only been able to eliminate Erik Stein from the list, due to him being in a conference in Germany at the time of Charlotte's death. Not a single one of these men had connections that could be traced to Marino even with Penelope's almost magical powers.

"So, we… I mean, I..." Penelope started talking and Rossi let out a small laugh.

"It's ok, Penelope, I don't mind if the others know I have been helping you so far," Rossi stated, with a gentle smile on his face.

"So, you two having been sneaking around behind our backs for months now?" JJ teased them, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"Actually, I was in on it too," Spencer finally said.

"Call us the Three Musketeers, if you want." Rossi did an exaggerated flourish with his hand to punctuate his sentence.

"So, tell us, Athos, what have the three of you discovered so far?" Emily turned in her chair to look at Rossi.

"Unfortunately, not much. Penelope, do you want to keep going with your presentation or can I share it with the others?" Rossi said.

"Oh, by all means, sir, you do the honors."

"This list was compiled by Charlotte Bradford, after months of hard work, combing through the known Johns of the missing girls. So far, we’ve been able to eliminate Matthew Bradford, since the unsub's DNA doesn't have any matches to Charlotte's. We also eliminated Erik Stein, who was in Europe for work at the time of Charlotte's death. Now that ADIC Sweeney has given us his DNA since Emma went missing, hopefully we can eliminate him as a suspect too, bringing our remaining total to seven," Rossi said.

"And we were not seriously considering Agent Thomas as a suspect, either," Spencer said. "Research on African-American serial killers is scarce and the available data on them is severely underreported. Little has been improved since Philip Jenkins wrote his paper 'African-Americans and serial homicide' for the American Journal of Criminal Justice, in 1993, where he declared, without any concrete data to back him up, that extrapolating the available data on homicide being usually an intra-racial crime, one could infer that most African-American serial killers would escape detection more often. There was a paper published in 2014 in the Journal of Ethnicity and Criminal Justice, by Lester and White, 'A Study of African American Serial Killers', that also reports the lack of data on African-American serial killers to this day. They observe that the number of African-American serial killers has increased in the last 20 years while the demographic of white serial killers has seen a decrease in numbers. This can, of course, also be interpreted as a reduction in bias by Law Enforcement and an increase in the investigation of the deaths and disappearances when the victims are People of Color."

"Even though this is all too interesting, for those of us who aren’t up on the latest criminology research, let me sum up for you what the Boy Genius is trying to say,” Rossi interrupted him. "We aren't placing too much stock in Agent Thomas as our unsub, because when a Black man in America starts killing white women, even if they are just sex workers illegally in the country, people notice it. Especially if those white women disappeared after meeting up with a Black ‘John’ who favors white girls."

Tara nodded in solemn agreement.

"All of the remaining men on our list are between 35 and 60 years old. All of them are in excellent shape and hold positions of power. They all work in male-dominated fields," Penelope spoke again. "But, now that I will be able to work from here again, instead of using my personal machine, I will turn over every stone in their lives to see if I can narrow down our list even more."

"That's great work anyway, guys," Emily said, nodding. "Seven ― hopefully, six ― suspects is way better than no suspects at all." She stayed in silence for a moment. "JJ and Luke, go to the facility where Marino is serving his sentence and see how he reacts to the news of his Master having abandoned obscurity after he took the fall for him. See if you can rattle him. Afterwards, see if you can meet with Justin Miller. Considering what Spencer has said about African-American serial killers, but also not discarding the possibility that he could be an exception to the rule, you two should also try to interview Agent Thomas, if not today, tomorrow. Tara and Rossi, you two take Doctor White and Chief Newlands. With Newlands, see if there's _anything_ we have missed about Natalya's murder investigation, and Detectives Smith and DiMarco. Spencer, you're with me. We're going to visit Judge Larsen, Ambassador Duvivier, and Senator Hawthorne."

  
  


***

Spencer had called her around one a.m and asked to sleep at her place that night. Mia was sleeping already, but she woke up to wait for him. He held her in a bone crushing hug as soon as she opened the door for him.

"I'm sorry for missing your birthday," he whimpered against her hair.

"That's ok. I'm sorry that you're having to deal with this horrible case." She kissed his cheek and tried to let go of him, but Spencer still held her tight.

He kissed her, desperate, and Mia let him.

"I'm here, galego, I'm here," she whispered against his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] "Look, we're not complaining, Melinha. I always knew that you would, eventually, meet a man who would tame you, you know?"
> 
> "I think you will be very disappointed with Spencer in that sense, dad. He's not at all the macho man you're expecting. And he's not taming me."
> 
> "Mima, you need to give me the recipe for this dessert! I'll try to make it at home for grandma!"
> 
> [2] "Motherfu..."
> 
> [3] "I'll ruin your perky little ass. I'll fuck you so hard that you won't be able to sit straight tomorrow, blondie"
> 
> [4] "I think I love you"


	19. Lioness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a gift, it comes with a price  
> Who is the lamb and who is the knife?  
> Midas is king and he holds me so tight  
> And turns me to gold in the sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being _huge_ and it's told in a non-linear manner, so the parts will be marked at the beginning with the day they're happening at.

Mia hated loud clubs with a ton of people. She still couldn't believe that she had let Ellie convince her to go to one. She liked dancing, but electronic music isn't dancing. It's something closer to having a seizure in the middle of similarly uncoordinated strangers. Ellie had vanished a while ago and Mia was trying to find her in the confusing maze that was this awful club. Behind a door, she found a balcony instead. There was a woman, shorter than her, leaning on the handrail, smoking a joint with her back turned to Mia. She wore a short sparkly dress and a bomber jacket. Her blonde hair escaped from the ponytail in fine strands.

Mia walked to her, perhaps she could help her find Ellie or her way out of there.

"Hey," she called, but the woman didn't turn.

"Hey," Mia said again, putting her hand on the woman's shoulder.

When the woman turned to face Mia, her blue eyes were glassy and her lips were purple. There were handprints on her very pale neck.

"You forgot me already," Charlie said. "Just like everyone forgot the others."

Screaming, Mia walked back in horror.

She curled into a ball against a cool smooth surface, trying to hide from all the fear she felt and run away from Charlie.

Someone who smelled like cheap whiskey and cigarettes grabbed her by her hair, pulling her up from the bathtub where she had been hiding in.

"Amelia, it's past time we had a little chat." The man holding her was so tall that her feet were dangling in the air. He was big like a bear, with a broad, strong chest. There was something in his face and the way his eyes were almost green under the fluorescent light of her bathroom that made her think she could have found him beautiful in another moment, even if his nose was big and his chin was small.

She saw this huge knife on his hip and she realized that there wasn't a scenario in which she would make it out of this alive. She lashed out, aiming for his eyes. Her fingers hurt when his nose broke her nail, but she could see his blood leaking from the angry gashes on his face before he threw her on the floor, screaming in rage.

"YOU BITCH!" He shouted before the tile made contact with her face and exploded her glasses into a million pieces, puncturing her skin. There was something wet on her face now too. Like both of them were pieces of a broken puzzle, that should never match, but did.

She tried to crawl out of his reach, but he grabbed her by her ankle and pulled her between his legs before kneeling on the floor. She managed to bite one of his hands before he slapped her face and got a good grip on her throat. Stale whiskey and cheap cigarettes, she would never forget. His beautiful lips were smiling even while she tried to kick his back and clawed at his arms. He was smiling and Mia realized that he wasn't putting his whole weight into his task.

Bear-man could snap her neck in two if he wanted, but he didn't. He wanted to take things slow, to submit her to his will first. He wanted to break her spirit before death.

***

_Tuesday_

  
  


The memory of the gunshots was what finally woke her up, in her own bed in her own apartment, which had 4 different locks on the doors and an alarm system, besides a doorman on the first floor. Spencer slept by her side, exhausted. Doctor Mead, her psychiatrist, had taken her off of her sleeping pills in December, just to see how she would fare on her own again. She was fine. Until her birthday.

After Emma's death, something shifted inside Mia. The nightmares came back in full force. She would be doing something in her house and the smallest of noises would startle her. Or a tall man would come closer to her on the street and she would smell _his_ cigarettes and _his_ whiskey. He didn't break her neck, but he chipped her spirit. Joshua Marino. His arrest meant very little to her. He wouldn't be able to come up and finish the job himself, but Spencer had said that he didn't believe that Marino was behind everything. An impulsive idiot like Marino would never scare Charlie like that. Charlie, whose face would now come back to her with a pang of guilt.

Charlie. Mia counted the days and realized it had been six months since Natalya had been murdered. This meant that another girl had probably gone missing and no one cared about it while everyone looked for the new big bad wolf who had taken the precious daughter of some bigshot. She obviously couldn't tell Spencer nor Eleanor about her plans, but she needed to pick up Charlie’s work from where she had left off. Even though she had heard Charlie say the address to that place to her just once, a year ago, when her research started, she remembered it perfectly well.

Being raised in a mostly Catholic environment, Mia thought a lot about the figure of Mary Magdalene as she drove, in the late hours of Tuesday afternoon, to the building in Anacostia where Charlie used to share a place with five other girls. Mary Magdalene was the unholiest of all saints, the patroness of the regretful sinners, the women, and the whores. And, yet, the one who the lamb of their god had chosen to witness the miracle of his resurrection. The one chosen to tell his story going forward. Mia had no idea if Mary Magdalene had some prayer to protect those who sought her out for help and she didn't even believe in praying, but she hoped that she, a woman, a sinner, and, to many, a whore, could live long enough to tell Charlie's story.

The building's exterior wall was falling apart and the street was devoid of people. Mia could see that some cars parked on the street were inhabited, but no one could bear to face the freezing wind on the sidewalk under the fine and sharp January rain. The sun had gone down already.

She buzzed the intercom and was let in with no questions. The paint in the hallway was chipped and there were mold stains on the ceiling. The floor stuck to the soles of Mia's boots as she walked. The banisters on the stairs appeared to be about to break down to the floor and a rat scurried across from one hole on the wall to another.

Mia knocked on the 3B door and a girl in heavy makeup and PJs opened the door.

"And who are you?" She asked, with a raised eyebrow and a thick Hispanic accent.

Like all the girls from the agency Charlie worked for, this girl looked like a supermodel. Maybe she had been one, at some point.

"I'm Amy, I was friends with Valerie Lamarr. I'm looking for Savannah." Mia answered.

The girl pursed her lips and tried to close the door.

"There is no one with that name here. Have a good day, now."

Mia almost threw herself against the door.

"Listen, I'm not with the police nor with ICE. I really was Valerie's friend and I just want to chat with Savannah. I know she liked to see pictures of Valerie's cat, Salem."

The girl opened the door just a centimeter more, but still suspicious of Mia.

"You know the cat? What happened to him?" She peeked her head through the door opening, curious.

"Are you Savannah?" Mia asked.

"No, I'm Selena," she answered, still not letting Mia in.

Mia grabbed her new phone from her pocket and opened up a cute picture of Salem sleeping from that afternoon.

"And I'm the person who's taking care of Salem now," she said showing the pic on her phone to Selena. The younger woman made an endeared sound. "If you let me in, I can show you more pictures of him while we wait for Savannah."

This finally made Selena open the door.

"Ok, you can wait inside. Savannah will be back soon, but I have to leave. I have… you know it." The way she was almost sheepish in her avoidance to talk about her date with a client made Mia's heart shrink in her heart. She was _really_ young.

"It's ok, I won't get in your way."

There was a futon couch and some pallet boxes being used as furniture in the small living room. Mia remembered, from reading Charlie's journals on the day she and Spencer had found them in the Swiss Bank's vault, that the apartment had two bedrooms down the hallway.

Mia walked to the middle of the living room and saw that the curtains were drawn. In her journals, Charlie said that they had more than one bad experience with the neighbors in front of them. Mia shuddered thinking of their conditions. Not that every sex worker's life was this vulnerable and violent or that she thought that they all needed to be rescued. But those girls that Charlie had met were mostly from very vulnerable backgrounds, falling into the hands of very bad people, who exploited them to their last breath.

"You can sit on the couch. I will change, and then you can show me the pictures of Salem," Selena said, with a smile.

"Gracias, Selena," Mia said in Spanish, walking to the couch.

"¿Hablas Español?" The girl asked, with her eyes wide as saucers.

"¿Y qué? No pensaste que yo era una gringa, ¡por supuesto!" Mia laughed, finally disarming Selena, who laughed too.

"¡Lo siento! ¡Por supuesto que no eres una gringa! Mira, ¡con esa piel morena! Claro que no. ¿De dónde es, guapa?" While she spoke, Selena walked into her room and Mia went after her.

"Brasil," she said in Spanish and the intonation was so soft, so different from having that angry Z and the rolled R after the B. It still wasn't how she had learned to say it as a little girl in Rio, but it was closer to home. Closer to South.

Selena looked over her shoulder while she got a dress from a hanger in a clothes rack.

"¿Brasil? Pensé que ustedes hablaban portugués. ¿Te importa si me cambio aquí?"

"Sin problemas. Sí, nosotros hablamos portugués, pero yo estudié español además de inglés."

Selena had taken her clothes off and was fighting to dress in tight pantyhose.

"Comprendo. Yo soy Venezolana. Vení a América hace dos años, quería casarme con un gringo rico, pero… That's life, baby." [1] She shrugged at the end of her sentence. "Would you zip me, please?"

Selena took her long straightened dark hair out of the way and turned her back to Mia. She had a tattoo of a small butterfly on her shoulder. Mia helped her with her dress.

"Selena, do you know if any girls got out of the business without warning in the last month or so?" Mia asked her, hoping she would give her a straight answer.

Selena turned to look at Mia again, narrowing her eyes.

"Not that I know. I mean, girls come in and out of business all the time. I hope I can pay my debts soon and have my own place in a short while, at least work for myself." She got her thigh high boots with stiletto heels from under her single bed and sat on it to put them on. "My bosses are more professional than some of the creeps around, but they still get half of everything I make." She stood up, walking in those heels with a certainty that Mia would never possess, and grabbed some jewelry from a small box. "But I don't think that anyone has left this month. Why do you ask?"

Mia bit her lower lip, thinking. She had no idea how much the girls knew of Charlie's research or her findings. She took a piece of paper from the notepad she always carried on her purse, scribbled on it, folded, and handed it to Selena.

"Lo siento, pero no puedo decirte. Escucha, en ese papel yo escribí mi teléfono. Si necesitas de algo o si sabes que falta alguna chica, me llama o me escribe, sí?" [2]

"If I need anything?" Selena asked, sarcastic, but she took the paper. "Didn't you hear everything I just said?"

Mia stopped for a second, thinking how to answer her challenge. But then Selena laughed.

"Don't you worry your pretty head, Amy! I'm not trying to make you my knight in a shiny armor," she got a small purse from the rack and walked to Mia. In heels, Selena was really taller than her. "Although, with this blazer and tie, let me tell you that you do look the part," Selena said, seductively.

Mia could feel herself blushing violently. Was this barely-not-a-teenager really flirting with her or was Selena working some angle with her? She had _no_ experience with this type of situation whatsoever. When sex workers appeared at No Borders, they usually had specific demands ― a lawyer, an interpreter, condoms, birth control, a doctor who doesn't ask questions, some work reference so they could leave the trade, some mediation in a conflict with another sex worker ― this was uncharted territory. But then Selena made a point in showing Mia that her dress had a hidden pocket, where she hid the paper with her number.

"If I learn anything, or need anyone to zip me up again, I'll text you, caballero. Deal?" Selena asked, her face just a few centimeters away from Mia's.

"Deal," she answered, inhaling the younger girl's spicy and sweet perfume.

Selena smoothed the lapels of Mia's blazer, very focused on her task.

"Do you still need to wait for Savannah or you can walk me out to the subway?" Selena sounded almost innocent.

"I can… I can drive you to the station, if you want." Mia said, feeling her throat very dry.

Selena looked at her through her thick dark lashes coated in mascara and chuckled.

"Un caballero, de hecho," [3] she said, teasing. "I would like that, thank you very much."

She laced her arm with Mia's after locking the door, wrapped in her knock-off designer overcoat and wearing a charming beanie.

"Tell me, caballero, what do you do with your life besides worrying about putas?"

Mia laughed, opening the building's door for Selena, who flashed her a winning smile.

"I worry about undocumented immigrants. About making sure they are safe and unharmed."

Something shifted in Selena's eyes after hearing this. She held Mia's arm again when they started to walk down the street towards her car.

"Is that why you're asking? Are you worried that some girl was harmed last week?"

"Yes." Mia answered her as honestly as she could. She opened her car.

Selena hopped in the passenger's seat, rubbing her hands in front of the heater Mia had just turned on.

"Valerie worried a lot too. She told me about you, you know? She would tell everybody about the girl she would marry someday." These words cut her deeper than the wind outside. "And then we all found out who she really was, last year, after, you know..."

There was a moment of silence where they both just looked at each other.

"So you know who I am too," Mia said, carefully.

"You really aren't an anonymous person anymore, Profesora Ferreira." And then she smiled, gently. "No te preocupes, caballero. [4] I'm very good at keeping secrets."

  
  


***

_Monday_

While they were in the car driving to the facility where Marino was currently serving his sentence, Garcia called the whole team.

"What's up, Garcia?" JJ said when she picked up the call.

_"_ _Greetings, all – your herald bears tidings. Although I wasn't able to find anything connecting our men to any of the eleven missing girls, Natalya, or Charlotte, besides them all being known patrons of the world's oldest profession, I was able to connect them to Emma Sweeney. All of them, in fact."_

"This quickly?" Luke asked, before he could think better.

Garcia snorted on the other side of the call.

_"Oh ye, of little faith! Newbie, I am the Oracle of Quantico, the one who knows all things!_ " She retorted.

_"Garcia…"_ Emily's voice came from the speaker. _"What did you find out about Emma and the men on Charlotte's list?"_

_"Ok, boss lady, ask and you shall receive. I found several pictures online of all of them at Jim Ellison's New Year's Eve gala this year. Apparently, it was huge and everyone who was someone in DC went to this thing. Still, there are pictures of Emma and several of our gentlemen chatting together or, at least, in the same vicinity. I already sent them all to your phones. I'll keep digging, see if I can find any personal connection or, at least, something juicier than this."_ As usual, she spoke in her fast rhythm and Luke could hear her fingers typing during the call. 

_"Good. It's still not enough to connect Emma with the other girls besides Reid's gut feeling, but it's a lead, nonetheless,"_ Rossi said.

_"Keep digging, Garcia. Call us if you find anything else,"_ Emily spoke again.

_"Your wish is my command, my liege! Garcia, out!"_

Luke slowed the car as they approached the control post outside the prison. After showing their IDs to the guards, they parked the FBI-issued SUV in the facility's parking lot.

"What do you think?" JJ asked him, as she unbuckled.

"About what?" Luke asked back, turning off the car.

"You know. About us following Spencer's gut feeling that this is somehow connected to the others. About us believing the investigation that one of our victims did that said we have even more cases to connect besides her own murder and her friend's before her. About all of this." JJ said, as they left the car.

"Are you asking me because you want to hear my opinion due to my expertise on illegal immigrants or because I'm new to the team and, therefore, less likely to be biased on wanting to believe every theory that is presented to me by my teammates?"

She looked at him with her intelligent brown eyes and her lips tugged slightly upwards.

"Both," was her answer.

"As someone who worked on the South border tracking coyotes for a while, I can just reassert the obvious. These women, the eleven women we syphoned from the dozens who left the trade without warning since 2009 in DC, who share physical characteristics, are drifters. Yes, they might be dead. Or just some of them might be dead. Some might have been killed by their pimps or dealers, some might have been trafficked somewhere else… This timeline we are working with may not even be it. Maybe there are just two victims of the same person. Maybe not. That Natalya and Charlotte were killed by the same unsub, that I believe. The DNA, the red rope, the MO, it all points to the work of one man. Or two, we don't know how active Marino was at the murders."

"Garcia couldn't find a trace of those women, Luke. Not even a whiff." JJ retorted.

"I mean, and don't tell her that I said that, but Garcia might be a tech genius, but she isn't really all powerful. There are serious trafficking networks that really vanish with people. I have seen it, JJ."

They were buzzed into the prison and had to surrender their weapons before going into the interview room the warden had designated for them to sit with Marino.

"That being said, Garcia, Rossi, and Reid have been working together on this for the past three months. They must have turned over every rock possible. So, if they believe these women are dead and the same guy did it, I will believe their work," Luke said. "And I might not have known Reid as long as you guys have, but, I know that his mind sometimes does inexplicable deductive leaps that usually tend to be correct in the end. We still have no other leads concerning Emma's death, so I don't think it's a bad idea for us to work with this possibility for now."

JJ nodded and opened the interview room's door. Marino was seated by the table, wearing the prison uniform. He looked even bulkier than last October. His buzzed hair made his nose seem even bigger and drew attention to how big his ears were. On the inner part of his right arm, a prison tattoo of a shamrock could be seen. This was no surprise, since the intel the warden had given the BAU prior to their visit already informed them that Marino joined the Aryan Brotherhood just a few weeks after his arrival and had been acting as the muscle man for their local leader ever since.

"Good morning, Corporal. Long time no see," Luke greeted him as they walked to their chairs across the table.

"Agent Alvez, what a pleasure to meet you again," Marino greeted him with a smile. Luke noticed that Doctor Ferreira's nails had left fine scars across his face.

"How is prison life treating you, Josh?" JJ asked. "I see you have made yourself some new friends." She pointed at his tattoo with a nod and theatrically opened the paper files with Emma's pictures in front of her in an angle that didn't allow Marino to see its contents.

"I ain't a snitch," he said, between his teeth.

"No, that you're not." Marino's eyes were so glued to the file in JJ's hands that he didn't even turn his head to face Luke when he spoke. "But we are not here to talk about your new friends. We're here to talk about your old ones."

This got Marino’s attention on Luke for a moment.

"Who?" He asked, interested.

"Your old friend. The one you're so loyal to that you even decided to spend fifty years in jail to protect him." Luke answered.

Marino laughed and the sound was almost like a bark.

"I acted alone on those two, I told you this already," he said with glee.

"And Doctor Ferreira?" JJ asked.

"Who?" Marino frowned at her.

JJ fished one of the pictures from her folder and put it on the table, turned to Marino. It was of Doctor Ferreira's wounds on the day after she was attacked.

"Doctor Amélia Ferreira. The woman whose neck you were strangling when officer Miller put two bullets in your chest, back in October." Luke almost snarled at him.

"Ah. Amelia..." He said, fondly, mispronouncing her name. Then it was like a lightbulb had been switched on inside his head and he raised his eyes from the picture in front of him to look at the agents again. "Is she alright? Did something happen to her?" He asked.

"Are you worried about her?" JJ raised one eyebrow and closed the folder in her hands, leaning in on the desk, closer to him.

Marino frowned.

"Of course. She… she..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

"She was your first, wasn't she?" Luke asked, finally realizing something about him.

"What are you accusing me of?! I've had plenty of women!" Marino growled, getting defensive.

"Of course you have. But Amélia was the first woman you seriously intended to kill. You thought she was yours, you had her in your hands, before she was stolen from you."

He seemed like he was going to agree with him, but then his face changed again and he seemed to get broodier.

"I have no fucking clue what you're talking about. I killed those whores before her, didn't I?"

"But did you, Josh?" JJ pressed him. "Because, if you did, who else knew about the red rope?"

She put a picture of Emma Sweeney's staged corpse on the table, beside Doctor Ferreira's. Marino's transparent face showed surprise, admiration, envy, and reverence, in that order.

"Maybe this guy just likes the same bondage websites that I did," Marino said, shrugging. Luke could see that he was lying. "I would never do anything like this for a whore."

"Like this?" Luke asked.

"Yeah. The church, the flowers…" He waved over the picture.

"But would you do it for Amélia?" When Luke said these words, Marino's nostrils flared.

"What does Amelia have to do with this?" He asked, worried.

"You tell us, Corporal. We told you we came here to talk about your old friend and, as soon as we mention the crime you committed against Amélia, you ask us if she has been hurt."

"I don't wanna talk anymore," Marino grunted like a child. "Guards!" He called out.

"If you leave now, you won't know if Amélia is hurt or not, Corporal," Luke goaded him.

His hands spasmed on the table when he looked very intently into Luke's eyes.

"Is she?" He asked, his face opened like a boy's.

"Who else knew about the red rope, Josh?" JJ pushed Emma's picture closer to him, insisting.

"Tell us about your friend and we will tell you about Amélia, Corporal," Luke offered.

A battle seemed to be happening inside Marino's brain.

"I don't know why you're so loyal to him, Josh. He's not loyal to you." JJ used her soft voice when she spoke again.

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Marino lashed out.

"Don't I?" JJ pushed him. "Because, from where I'm standing, you're in jail and he's free. You will never see your son without plexiglass separating the two of you again, and he's out there killing more women without you."

"Lucca is being taken care of," Marino grunted, touching Emma's picture with his fingers.

"By him? Did your friend promise you he would look after your family if you took the fall for him?" He looked right into JJ's eyes when she asked him this, but said nothing. A pregnant silence stretched out in the space between them.

"Tell us about Amélia then, Corporal," Luke offered. "You never told us how and why you chose her. Tell us now and we will give you news of her."

"And a job at the library," Marino said. "I'll tell you about Amelia and you will get me out of the laundry room and into the library."

JJ couldn't help but smile a little at their small victory.

"Deal."

***

_Tuesday_

Becky and Matt's house in Fairfax had a beautiful winter garden, which was kept luxuriously green even in the middle of January. Rebecca insisted that their meetings about the gala should be there, so they could have their privacy and also get some sun on their skins through the glass ceiling.

The house staff would serve them the most delicate finger foods to eat with the afternoon tea, but Becky would barely eat anything, limiting herself to sip her herbal tea and occasionally nib on a biscotti. However, she wouldn't reprimand Mia for eating. As a matter of fact, she found it almost delightful that her "new friend" would eat three cucumber sandwiches in a row and drink black coffee at four in the afternoon. She wouldn't look at her with spite when Mia arrived at their meetings exhausted after a day of classes at Georgetown or hard work at No Borders, always wearing trousers, ties, sweaters, button up shirts, and a lot of tweed.

No. Unlike Laura, who looked at her like she was something that had stuck to the sole of her shoe, and Charlie, who used to gaze adoringly at Mia even when she was trying to clean a coffee stain out of her shirt, Becky looked at Mia with amusement. Under Rebecca Bradford's gaze, Mia felt almost like a French comedy; unexpected, eccentric, and, yet, adorable.

Rebecca, on the other hand, dressed like the daughter Laura never had. Her blouses and blazers were cut to subtly emphasize the feminine curves of her body, and she was almost always in skirts. Never a hair out of place, never a chipped nail, her makeup was always impeccable. She was the image of classic white feminine beauty.

To make her portrait even more perfect, there would always be a moment during their meetings that Junior would be brought into the room by his nanny. He could have a drawing to show his mom ― and, after a few weeks, Mia ― or sing a new song he had learned, or just sit on his mom's lap and eat his baby carrots. At first, Mia felt endeared by the way Becky connected with her son. With time, she noticed that this happened too often to not be staged to a degree. Becky wanted people to see how she was a patroness of the arts, a busy charitable woman in command of her own foundation for kids with leukemia, and a dedicated mom.

"Happy belated birthday, dear," Becky said to her, as she walked into the winter garden on Tuesday.

There was a small velvet box with a satin bow in front of Mia's seat.

"Becks, what is this?" Mia asked, frowning.

"Exactly what it seems, Amy. A birthday gift." Becky signaled for the maid to pour Mia's coffee into her cup and took a sip of her own tea.

"You really shouldn't have..." Mia muttered, feeling embarrassed.

"Nonsense. It's what one should do for family," was Becky's answer.

Mia frowned and looked at her, still not opening the gift.

"When did we become family, Rebecca?" She asked, serious.

Becky smiled at Mia the same way she used to when she explained very simple things to Junior.

"I think Lottie made it very clear in her will that she considered you to be her family. So, it really doesn't matter if you're not going to live in the house she left you or that you're going to auction every art piece ― including that Picasso sketch ― and antique inside it for charity. We're family, Amy. Now stop with these silly questions and open your gift already so we can discuss the details of our first gala together."

Mia had nothing to say at this, so she pulled the bow off of the box and opened it. It was a necklace with a huge emerald-cut diamond pendant hanging from a white gold chain, surrounded by small sapphires. She couldn't even bring herself to touch it.

"Before you protest," Becky started saying. "I wore this necklace on my wedding day. It was gifted to me by Laura, welcoming me to the family. It was my 'something blue'. After you showed me the croqui for your costume, I knew it would go perfectly with it and it had to be yours. As _your_ welcome to the family, from someone who also wasn't born into it."

She had to blink a few times and swallow the huge lump in her throat before saying anything.

"Thank you, Becky," she finally managed to say.

"You're welcome, my dear. Now, let's talk business." Becky put her tablet on the table and Mia took out her small notebook from her purse to take notes. "I have made the first payment to Florence Welch's manager and my team is ironing out the last details with the string quartet you recommended. For a band so irrelevant, you would expect that they would be more flexible. Matt and I have done all the paperwork with the auction house for the surprise item we are donating and we have already sold 70% of the available tables. I will need your guest list before this month is over, Amélia, you know I don't joke about charity functions."

  
  


***

_Monday_

"Apparently, Doctor White will be in surgery all day today. His secretary said he will be available for an interview some point later this week," Tara said, after she got off the phone.

She looked at Rossi, who drove their car towards the MPD's headquarters. He had been very quiet since they had left Quantico.

"So, why were you one of the Musketeers?" She asked.

"You're assuming the whole thing wasn't my idea in the first place," he answered, not taking his eyes off the road.

Tara scoffed and rolled her eyes.

"Are you telling me that you were more obsessed with the Bradford case than Garcia, who can't stand being defeated by a computer, and Reid, who was clearly smitten with our only living victim?"

Rossi chuckled at this.

"I think you're perhaps underestimating just how much I hate it when an unsub evades us, Tara. But you're right. It was Penelope who asked for my help when she saw Sweeney and Newlands' names on Charlotte's list. If there's one thing that I hate more than a serial killer at large, it’s when said killer is a coward who hides behind a badge."

***

_Monday_

Emily waited less than fifteen minutes in the car to sigh and glance quickly at Spencer over her shoulder.

"Come on, say it," she said, impatient.

Spencer, who had been fidgeting with a loose thread from his scarf ever since they had left, rose his eyes to her face, startled.

"Say what?" He asked.

"Spencer, you insisted that this case is connected to the Bradford case. I only pretended to not see what you were doing until now because the case was closed, but now we might reopen it and I need you to say it."

"I have been in an intimate relationship with Professor Amélia Ferreira since last year," he said in a single breath.

Emily let out a small disappointed sound and ran one of her hands on her forehead.

"Damn it, Reid. God damn it! You… I should suspend you. I should report you! When did this start? Was her case still open?"

He opened and closed his mouth a few times.

"Uh… Things… Happened… Well, they happened _mostly_ after the case was closed." His leg was bouncing like crazy with his anxiety.

"Mostly? Reid, I can't believe..." Emily started saying between her teeth when the phone rang.

She shot a look at Reid before pressing the button on the car's panel to get the call from Penelope, who’d already patched in the rest of the team.

_"What's up, Garcia?"_ JJ said over the line.

_"_ _Greetings, all – your herald bears tidings. Although I wasn't able to find anything connecting our men to any of the eleven missing girls, Natalya, or Charlotte, besides them all being known patrons of the world's oldest profession, I was able to connect them to Emma Sweeney. All of them, in fact."_

_"This quickly?"_ Luke asked. Poor Luke, he still hadn't learned to not doubt Penelope's skills.

Penelope snorted on the other side of the call.

_"Oh ye, of little faith! Newbie, I am the Oracle of Quantico, the one who knows all things!"_ She retorted.

"Garcia…" Emily decided to steer the conversation into more productive territory. She still wanted to grill Spencer. "What did you find out about Emma and the men on Charlotte's list?"

_"Ok, boss lady, ask and you shall receive. I found several pictures online of all of them at Jim Ellison's New Year's Eve gala this year. Apparently, it was huge and everyone who was someone in DC went to this thing. Still, there are pictures of Emma and several of our gentlemen chatting together or, at least, in the same vicinity. I already sent them all to your phones. I'll keep digging, see if I can find any personal connection or, at least, something juicier than this."_

Emily stole a glance at Spencer with the corner of her eye. He was very quiet, looking through the car window.

_"Good. It's still not enough to connect Emma with the other girls besides Reid's gut feeling, but it's a lead, nonetheless,"_ Rossi said.

"Keep digging, Garcia. Call us if you find anything else," Emily spoke again.

_"Your wish is my command, my liege! Garcia, out!"_

There was a period of silence in which Emily was thinking carefully about the necessary next steps.

"Tell me about her." This definitely wasn't something a Unit Chief should be saying.

She shouldn't ignore the fact that Reid had disobeyed her direct orders and jeopardized a high-profile case, if the news ever got out. But, at the same time, she had known Spencer for ten years now and he had always been so closed off and lonely, with that big heart of his full of affection with no one to receive it.

He whipped his head so fast to look at her that his neck snapped.

"What do you mean?" He earnestly asked.

"You disobeyed my direct orders. You jeopardized a high profile case. You risked your career. You _lied_ to your friends, Spencer, _for months_. Convince me that you didn't just become someone else and do all of this just to have sex with a victim."

Spencer made a choking sound that became a coughing fit upon hearing Emily's words. Too bad for his sensibilities. She was disappointed and frustrated with him.

"So, before I make a decision, tell me about her."

Spencer let out a long sigh.

"Did you know that she could have gone to college when she was 12, but her parents didn't think she was mature enough for it yet?"

"I remember Penelope saying something like that when we were starting Charlotte's case."

"And then she could have gone to any college of her choice when she was 15, but she took a whole year off to do non-profit work helping refugees?"

"No, I didn't know that."

"That day after you told her I wouldn't see her again, she showed up at my apartment; she said we were kindred spirits.. That I made her feel understood. I had spent fifteen years reading about her in the newspapers and wondering if she would be that for me. If we could be friends."

"And is she?"

"Yes and no. I… Everything is always so loud and so fast inside my head and… And, with her… Speed is relative. If two bodies are moving at the same speed, it doesn't matter if they are breaking the sound barrier. One is always in the same place, relative to the other."

Emily nodded without saying anything.

"But it's not that simple. She's not a mirror of myself, I'm not that narcissistic." He laughed, self-deprecating. "She dominates entire areas of knowledge that I was never able to. She speaks nine languages and wants to learn another one this year. Perhaps she could understand your jokes in Arabic, I don't know. No. She's not a mirror. She's the road not taken, to me. Several big and small differences that made us find each other, but we still gravitate in different orbits and… And she pulls me… She..."

"Outside your comfort zone?"

"Yes. She made me watch _Legally Blonde_ the other night and she forbade me to comment on the inaccuracies in due legal process because, according to her, that's not important. The important thing is how Elle learns to love herself for who she is. According to Amélia. The movie is _very_ inaccurate, though."

"So she makes you feel at ease with yourself, but she challenges you. That sounds good, I mean, from what you have just said."

"It is good."

"I still haven't decided what I'll do about this." She said.

"I understand completely. I deserve whatever you decide."

"So you're not planning to break-up with her any time soon?"

Spencer let out that self-deprecating laugh again.

"No. I would never be dumb enough to break up with her. However, she may recover her senses at some point and realize that she can do a lot better than me."

  
  


***

_Monday_

A weird sense of calm settled in his bones once Emily knew the truth. He knew he could end up fired if Emily reported everything to IA, as she should do, if she followed protocol. This tiny thought in the back of his head scared him, but not as much as he always thought it would.

Spencer never _chose_ the FBI or the BAU. Like he hadn't chosen going to college at 12 years-old, or taking care of his mother since he was eight. As with pretty much any major decision in his life, the BAU had happened _to_ him. His skills in storing facts and identifying patterns drew attention to him when he still wasn't old enough to know what he wanted with his life, besides not feeling adrift anymore. The FBI recruiter who approached him at a chess tournament before his 18th birthday told him that he could use his skills for the greater good. To make the country safe and the world a better place. So he went along. He was sent straight to the BAU after graduating from the Academy and having a father figure in Gideon was an extra perk for him. He could finally feel like he belonged to something.

Still. Being comfortable living out the fate the Oracle prophesied for you isn't the same as forging your own path. It isn't the same as free will.

It had been ten years and he would still wake up every morning and set out to do the only thing that he ever thought he could. But Amélia also shook this certainty within. When he told Emily she was the road not travelled, he didn't mean it only about comparing his own past to hers.

He meant about all the possibilities of a future he had never considered before. Amélia said to him once that her steadfast pace felt to her as the magic fig tree Sylvia Plath described in _The Bell Jar_ [5] _._ Only, instead of sitting under the fig tree and contemplating her infinite possible futures going spoiled and exploding on the ground around her, Amélia kept marching forward trying to ignore them. She, too, had never really stopped to ask herself what she would want to be. In her case, she told him she often wondered if her life was hers or what her parents had envisioned for her, many decades ago.

The maid who had welcomed them at the front door of Judge Larsen's house now opened the door to his study. Larsen was seated on a large leather armchair, dictating something to his wife, who was quickly typing it on his personal computer on the big work desk. They both stopped when Emily and Spencer entered the room.

"Good afternoon, Agent Prentiss, Doctor Reid. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?" Mrs. Ingrid Larsen stood up to greet them with a polite smile on her face.

Ingrid Larsen was a tall and slender woman in her forties, dressed in a comfortable but sober manner. She had a BA in Art History from Brown, but had married Ian right after college and never formally worked a day in her life. Ingrid came from an old Midwestern family and had a large trust fund in her name.

Ian Larsen was a tall man, even seated in his armchair with a knitted blanket over his legs, Spencer could see that he dominated a whole room with his presence. He had a salt-and-pepper thick beard that matched his hair and made his eyes look even more impossibly blue behind his glasses.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Larsen, Judge," Emily said. "We're working on the case of Emma Sweeney's death and we're interviewing everyone who was in contact with her at the New Year's Eve party."

"The party? But that was two weeks before she disappeared," Mrs. Larsen said, sounding puzzled. She had crossed the room and was standing beside the Judge's armchair.

Her husband rested a hand over hers, gently.

"I'm sure they're just trying to be thorough, Ingrid," the Judge said, speaking softly. "I don't mind talking with you about the party, agents. I don't know if I'll have much to say, though. Ingrid and I are friends with the Sweeney family, but we were at different tables during Jim's party. But ask me whatever you want and I'll answer as well as I can. After all, I first met Emma when she was just a little child. Please, sit."

Ingrid's face seemed to look even more pale and stern at the memory of a little Emma her husband had brought up. The Larsens had no children of their own.

Spencer sat beside Emily on a small leather couch across from the Judge's chair. Ingrid was still standing behind her husband, watching them with distrust like a hawk.

"Her friends mentioned that she was interested in someone. An older man. And they had begun flirting at this party," Emily said. She was extrapolating the truth. Mackenzie and Hope said her older crush had been toying with her for two weeks, but they hadn't specified where Emma had met him or their relationship transformed, if he was already in her life prior to this event.

Ingrid scoffed. When all eyes turned to look at her, she seemed embarrassed.

"Emma was…" She cleaned her throat and composed herself again. "A lively girl. She knew she was gorgeous and always liked to flirt with everyone. Not that it would mean anything."

"Everyone?" Spencer asked, letting all of the unsaid hanging in the air between them.

Judge Larsen laughed and his laugh was deep as his voice.

"Yes, Doctor Reid. Everyone. I would usually act oblivious, like grown men often need to do around such little girls. Answering your question, I don't remember noticing Emma spending any special amount of time with anyone during the party. But, then again, this is an election year and I was more interested in grown-up talk than monitoring my friend's wild child." When he reached to pick up his teacup, the Judge's right hand spasmed and he recoiled with a horrified look on his face.

It was a very sudden movement in his thumb and first finger. A fine, rapid flickering, that Spencer could barely catch with his eyes before the Judge rested his contracted hand on his lap again. The ever attentive Ingrid ran to his aid, getting the cup from the tray on the coffee table and placing it in his left hand.

"This question is just for procedure, but could someone verify your whereabouts on Friday the 15th between the hours of 1 and 6 a.m. and this morning, between the hours of 4 and 6 a.m., sir?" Emily used her most diplomatic voice to ask this question.

"Am I a suspect, Agent Prentiss?" The Judge seemed amused by the idea.

"At the present moment you're not an official suspect, sir," was her answer.

"This Friday night… Where was I, honey?" Larsen asked Ingrid.

"In our bed. Snoring all night on both accounts," she answered. There was something secretive behind her eyes. "He was still asleep when I woke up at 5:30 a.m. on Saturday and today for my morning run."

"You went for a run today with the streets covered in snow, Mrs. Larsen?" Spencer asked her, incredulous.

"We happen to have this magical artifact called a treadmill in our indoor gym, Doctor Reid." Her blue eyes were as cold as her voice. "If you don't believe us, we can share the recordings from the security cameras on our property."

"As a matter of fact, that would be very helpful, Mrs. Larsen, if you also give your consent, Judge." Emily said.

The Judge waved his hand, dismissive, at the thought.

"By all means, if you need to verify my alibi to believe I had nothing to do with Emma's death, do it."

"Would you also consent to provide us with a DNA sample, just to rule you out completely?" Spencer asked.

Larsen chuckled.

"Now, now. We all know that giving a DNA sample to the FBI is the same as inviting a vampire into your home. No, I'm sorry, agents, but this is where I draw the line. If you want my DNA, you will have to show up here with a court order commanding me to do so."

***

_Monday_

They regrouped at the BAU by the end of the day. Tara and Rossi had scheduled an interview with Doctor White for the next day. JJ and Luke could get a hold of Agent Thomas by phone, who immediately informed them that he had been out of the country for the whole past week with the Vice-Presidential detail, for which he provided extensive documentation. They were able to interview Chief Newlands that day, who had no alibi for the time of Emma's murder, but volunteered a DNA sample and authorized that CSU search his car and properties.

Louis Duvivier's assistants informed Emily that the Ambassador had travelled on that Monday for work and would be back and available for interviewing by Friday. JJ told the team that she and Luke found out that Justin Miller wasn't in the country either. He had travelled that afternoon to Switzerland for a ski vacation with his family in the Alps and would only be back in two weeks.

The lab had gotten back with preliminary DNA results and Peter Sweeney wasn't a match for the samples on Natalya and Charlotte. Even though this alone didn't mean he hadn't killed his own daughter, since they had no concrete evidence that both cases were connected, Ava was his solid alibi for Friday night. She hadn't been able to sleep once Emma broke curfew.

"Senator Hawthorne's chief of staff agreed to a meeting first thing tomorrow morning," Emily said, entering the briefing room where the team awaited her. "I know it's already five p.m, but tonight everyone will stay late. We need to review every small detail in Emma's life and if there are any other intersections with these men or any other. Penelope, give Spencer every piece of footage you have found of the New Year's Eve party. See if you two can find anything there. Anything at all."

***

_Tuesday_

Emily picked him up at Amélia's early in the morning. Her lips were a thin line on her face. Spencer hid his face behind the thermos filled with the amazing French-pressed Colombian coffee he had made for himself before leaving. Amélia was waking up when he was leaving, at just 7 a.m. She cornered him in the hallway like a caffeine deprived zombie and pushed three keys against his hand before kissing him quickly and closing the door behind him.

The car had barely left Amélia's building when his phone buzzed with a string of texts from her.

"no need to wake me up anymore

just use the keys whenever u wanna come over

i hope today goes better than yesterday

beijos"

She had nightmares again that night, he felt her tossing and tumbling in the sheets and when she sat up in the bed, breathing hard. He had been too tired to really wake up to comfort her, so he only rolled on his side to pull her down and nuzzled her hair until he felt her relax again. He hadn't told her about his confession to Emily yet. And he didn't have the opportunity to give her the birthday present he had spent weeks obsessing about. The new keys pressed against his thigh in his pocket and Spencer wondered if it would be a problem to go back to her place that night again. Lately, he would barely stay at his own place.

"This case isn't connected to the Bradford case." Emily's voice cut his train of thought. "At least, not officially, not yet. Officially, the Bradford case is closed and, officially, the man who killed Charlotte Bradford and Natalya Petrovna is in jail after confessing in detail to his crimes."

He stayed in silence, listening to her firm voice.

"Right now, we need all resources available on Emma Sweeney's murder and you're too valuable an asset to be chained to a desk or under an investigation. You and Professor Ferreira will keep your relationship low profile until this is all over and, if the question ever arises in the future, you both will say you started seeing each other _after_ Joshua Marino was arrested and the case was officially closed. Am I making myself clear?"

"Perfectly clear," he said, keeping his voice in a humble tone.

"If we get even a whiff that your gut feeling is correct and this is, in fact, connected to Joshua Marino, Charlotte Bradford, or Natalya Petrovna in any way, you will be immediately removed from the case and you _will_ be on your desk doing accumulated logwork."

"Thank you, Emily." He said. "This is way more than I deserve."

"Don't think that I'm doing this for you. I'm doing this for Emma Sweeney."

***

_Tuesday_

Mia had to get dressed for her classes of the day and her meeting with Rebecca later, but she decided to risk being late by standing under the winter sun for a few minutes on her terrace. Most of the snow was still there, now turned into a mushy grey thing, tainted by the pollution hanging in the DC air, but Mia didn't care.

She had dreamed of Charlie and given the keys to her apartment to Spencer. What the hell was she doing with her life?

Sometimes loving Charlie hurt like a suffocating pain similar to how her throat felt for weeks after Marino had tried to kill her. The ultimate trick Charlie played on her was to become this saint after her death. Everyone thought of them as these star-crossed lovers and wondered what was it that kept them apart in life. After all, Charlie left everything to Mia, Charlie made multiple declarations of love to her.

The truth was a different thing. The truth was complicated, almost impossible to capture or explain in words. Charlie was fucking her advisor. Her married advisor. Charlie dated several men in the four years since she broke up with Mia. She never had the guts to come out to her family and she never had the decency to let Mia be free.

And Mia… Mia was too weak to leave her. No one stayed, no one really wanted her once they knew her, so she accepted the crumbs Charlie fed her and pretended this was enough. She, too, pretended one day they could be together as Florentino and Firmina. But she resented Charlie more than she could ever express to anyone else besides Doctor Beatrice.

This was one of the reasons why her grief felt so all-consuming: she hated that Charlie had managed to leave her without ever confronting her own irresponsible behavior. And she hated that now she could never be able to confront Charlotte. To break ties from her.

And now… Now she feared she was getting herself into something like that again. Yes, she had only been dating Spencer for four months and it was perhaps too soon to start worrying about these things, but she did. He spent a lot of time with her, hidden in her place so no one from his work could risk finding out, and it was his work that made him not be available to meet her parents on Christmas Eve or her friends on her birthday. He was overworked and exhausted and that was why he had showed up in the middle of the night with that lame "I'm sorry I missed your birthday" and nothing else. She shouldn't overthink it.

She shouldn't overthink the fact that she made that huge declaration of her feelings at his place and he had never said anything back. That she had told him she thought she loved him on Christmas day and he never even acknowledged it. He had warned her that he wasn't that good with expressing feelings and he had told her repeatedly that he needed her.

But needing someone isn't the same as admiring them. Or loving them. Or wanting some sort of future with them.

Mia was an anxious person. She knew this. She could never stop herself from dissecting and analyzing every little thing that happened, to explore the scenarios in her head.

Charlie hated it about her. Most people did.

So she hid it away under her apparently carefree exterior, or her very understanding manners.

But there, alone on her terrace, wondering if she could ever break free from the spell Charlotte had cast over her all those years ago, she could just listen to the city below her, worry, and cry.

***

_Tuesday_

"Good morning, agents! Welcome to my office and please excuse me for the mess. Election year, you know." Senator Theodore Hawtorne welcomed Emily and Spencer into his office with a winning smile on his face.

He was almost the same height as Spencer, with a broad frame and a square face. His dark blonde hair was combed back, making his forehead more prominent. His icy blue eyes positively sparkled that morning.

The office was indeed hectic, with interns taking calls in every available corner, until Senator Hawtorne guided them to his private study and closed the door. A young white man was already in there, standing in a corner and studying some papers.

"When Austin heard the FBI wanted to interview me, he insisted on being present. I hope it's not an issue, agent Prentiss," Senator Hawthorne said, apologetically, pointing at the man.

"And Austin is…?" Emily asked.

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry about my manners, I don't really function before 10 a.m. Agent Prentiss, Doctor Reid, this is Austin Harris, my chief of staff and Republican wunderkid." Hawthorne said with an amicable laugh.

Upon hearing his name, Harris raised his eyes from the documents he was reading for a brief moment.

"I also graduated Summa Cum Laude from Harvard Law in the class of 2012 and will be assisting Ted in the capacities of his lawyer during this meeting," Harris deadpanned, before turning his attention back to the papers in his hands.

"Please, sit, make yourself comfortable. Do you want a coffee, some water? I can ask an intern to bring us something." Senator Hawthorne walked to his work desk and sat in his big office chair behind it, signaling with his hands that Emily and Spencer should sit across from him.

"We're fine, thank you. We're interviewing people close to the Sweeney family and it has been brought to our attention that you're friends with the ADIC?" Emily said, sitting on one of the chairs Hawthorne had pointed.

"Oh, yes. Pete and I have been golf buddies since I came to DC, six years ago. We’ve known each other longer than this, of course. Patricia, his first wife, is my father's cousin, so we are family." His open face got harsher and his jaw worked when he added: "I want to do whatever I can to help you nail the bastard who hurt Emma."

"We're very glad to hear it, Senator. The Bureau is sparing no expense in this investigation." Emily reassured him.

"I am relieved to know that. What kind of son of a..." Hawthorne started saying, but he was interrupted by a cough from Harris. "I'm sorry. You're not here to listen to my ramblings. Please, ask away."

"It's been brought to our attention that you attended Jim Ellison's New Year's Eve party," Emily began saying.

"Yes, I did."

"And you were seated at the same table as the Sweeneys," she added.

"We're family, like I said. We usually go together to these events."

"How would you describe your relationship with Emma?" Spencer asked.

"Friendly, I guess. It's not like we had that much in common. Emma was at that phase where she liked to party and all my life is the Party," Hawthorne answered.

"We have some pictures of you talking with Emma, you seem close," Emily baited. They had, indeed, pictures of Hawthorne and Emma chatting, but they weren't that many and nothing out of the ordinary.

To this, Hawthorne slightly frowned this head and opened his mouth to say something, but Austin spoke first.

"I didn't hear a question, agent Prentiss," the young chief of staff said.

"What did you talk about during the party?" She asked.

"I don't remember. New Year things. Emma's classes, maybe? The kind of generic small-talk you have with a younger cousin." Hawthorne scratched his chin, trying to remember the party.

"Did she mention anything about a boyfriend?" Spencer asked.

Hawthorne laughed.

"Oh, no, Doctor Reid. I was her father's old friend, Emma never had these conversations with me. I'm not cool enough."

"Come on, Senator, you're not old. You're just forty-two and several of your dates have been Emma's age," Emily said, in a joking tone.

Theodore Hawthorne was, indeed, a common face in the gossip magazines. Every month he had a different model or actress on his arm at a charity event or a famous restaurant.

"We will not comment on the Senator's personal life, agents," Harris stated.

Hawthorne gave them an apologetic smile and shrugged.

"I'm terribly sorry, agents, but I have to defer to Austin's advice. Otherwise, he might give up on me and surrender to the relentless courting from other members of my Party."

Emily adjusted herself on her seat.

"Well, Senator, this is just standard procedure, but we are asking the whereabouts of every man in Emma's life on Friday night, between 1 and 6 a.m, and yesterday morning between 4 and 6 a.m."

"I was in Ohio from Saturday morning to yesterday around noon, campaigning. I guess about 300 people can vouch for my whereabouts there. Austin, see that the FBI have our schedule and the pictures from the breakfast at the V.A. center." He answered.

"And Friday?" Spencer pressed.

"I was at a charity dinner until about midnight, when I had a terrible migraine and went home, to my house in Palisades."

"Can anyone confirm your story, Senator?" Emily asked in her diplomatic voice.

Hawthorne frowned, amused.

"My god, agent Prentiss. One would think that I'm a suspect." He laughed.

"I can guarantee you that you're not an official suspect of our investigation at the moment, Senator. We're just trying to narrow the list of men in Emma's life, that's the reason why we're here today," Emily said.

"I live alone, but Bob, my driver, can attest that he drove me from the dinner home on Friday and he picked me up at 8 a.m. on Saturday, at home, to go to the airport. My housekeeper was there already, when Bob showed up. She makes excellent pancakes. And I think that Austin can see that you have a copy of the security footage from my house. Can’t you, Austin?"

"Sure. Whatever you need, agents," Harris said, with no emotion in his voice.

"One last thing before we let you go on with your day, Senator. We are asking the men who knew Emma to volunteer a DNA sample just to help our investigation and I wonder..." Emily started saying.

"The answer is 'no', agent Prentiss. If you want the Senator's genetic material, you show up here with a signed warrant with probable cause to do so," Harris interrupted her. "And, with that, I believe that this interview is over." He rolled the papers under his arm and walked to the door, opening it for Emily and Spencer. "My assistant will email you everything we promised as to cooperate with your investigation later today. You can see yourselves out. Have a good day, agents, and good luck."

***

_Tuesday_

Spencer arrived at Amélia's place late in the night for the second time in a row since Emma Sweeney's death. It was the first time he used the keys she had given him. The whole place smelled like pancakes and there was music playing loudly in the background. When he turned to the right towards her kitchen, he saw that Amélia was, in fact, making a pile of pancakes while she sang along off-tune to the song and danced carefree. She was wearing an old rainbow sweatshirt, boxers, and knee-high socks with a Spock print. Her hair was in a messy bun and she was wearing her round glasses.

"Yeees, I've been broken hearted, blue since the day we parted!" She sang into the turner in her hand like it was a microphone.

Spencer had it bad. He had it real bad.

She turned to him, startled, when she heard his endeared chuckle. But then she laughed back and exaggerated her moves in a farcical version of the movie's choreography. Spencer had been forced to watch _Mamma Mia_ with her during her last PMS crisis. The IUD had stopped her blood flow, but it definitely hadn't stopped her hormonal fluctuations, and, apparently, a huge dosage of cheesy musicals and/or cheesy romcoms was the only thing that could save her from them.

Amélia flipped a pancake with a skilled movement of her wrist and pointed with the turner at him while the chorus' lines echoed his question of how, in fact, he could ever resist her.

"Well, hello there," he greeted her, coming closer. "Pancakes at midnight?"

She kissed him briefly and turned her attention to the stove again.

"It's been an awful 48 hours and I'm doing something I learned with my mom. I don't know how to translate it, though. She calls it 'contrariar o astral' and it's kind of a mix between swimming against the tide and laughing in the face of Fate. So… Pancakes at midnight and the _Mamma Mia_ soundtrack. Care to join me?" She asked.

"Sure, how can I help?" Spencer rolled his sleeves up to his elbows.

"Wash your hands and set the table for us, galego."

"Why have your last 48 hours been awful, sweetheart?" Spencer asked while he grabbed the cutlery from her cabinets.

"Besides one of my ex-students being brutally murdered on my birthday and my boyfriend being dragged off to work her case, you mean?" She tossed the last pancake on the pile and carried the almost Pisa Tower-like structure to the table with her. "I had the weirdest meeting today with Becca; she gave me a huge heirloom diamond necklace and welcomed me to the Bradford family. Which is… Hilarious and horrifying at the same time. And they're being so nice to me, helping so much with the gala, the remodeling of the No Borders headquarters and our new shelter, that I didn't have the guts to tell her that I already have my own family with enough problems for a lifetime, you know?"

He was bringing the syrup and the honey to the table while Amélia poured them chamomile tea.

"Also, my classes today were crap because none of the students could focus on anything besides the swarm of paparazzi on campus and the fact that our chapel is now a crime scene. And, as the cherry on top, I feel like we need to talk." She spoke while she stabbed three pancakes at once to put on her place.

"What do you want to talk about?" He asked, feeling his throat tighten up with the anxiety.

"You work a lot. I understand that. I have two jobs and I'm organizing a charity gala, so it's not like I sit idly at home picking daisy petals and wondering if you like me or not. But I gave you the keys to my place partly on an impulse and partly to force myself to have this conversation with you." Spencer focused on Amélia's hands, which gently spread cream cheese and blackberry jam over her top pancake. She let out a deep breath. "Where are you standing?"

"Huh?" He asked her, blinking in confusion. Her face showed tension and anxiety and she was biting her lower lip.

"About us. Where are you standing in this relationship? How are you feeling, what do you want for us?"

"Amélia, I… I don't understand what you want me to say."

She forcefully cut her pancake upon hearing his words and angrily chewed before speaking again.

"You were still awake, at Christmas. I know when you are asleep and you weren't. So I know that you heard me talk about my feelings. And you said nothing then and still haven't even acknowledged it so far. And I'm trying really hard here to be reasonable and know that people have different rhythms and different ways to express affection, but besides you crying and telling me you need me and that you're scared of _liking_ me, the truth is that, in these four months, you didn't really say much, right?" She took out her glasses and rested her face on her hands. "I'm trying to not project on you, I'm trying to tell myself that you are not Charlotte. As a matter of fact, you seem to be her direct opposite in so many ways, but… Sometimes I wonder if I'm just comfortable and convenient to you. If I am just good enough to placate your loneliness until something better shows up, and..." When Spencer realized she was crying, he got up and walked to his satchel, which he had hung by the entrance door.

"I'm really not good at this, Amélia," he whispered when he came back, placing the rectangular package in her lap, and crouching beside her. "But, please, how can you think this? How can you say that _you_ could be just a placeholder for someone else?"

"Because that was what I always was!" She said, her voice two octaves higher than normal. "People _think_ they like me at first glance. They _think_ I can be something… But I'm not. I always disappoint everyone. My papers are always less than ideal, my presentations are always filled with ramblings... And I'm _a mess_ , Spencer, in case you still haven't noticed, in my personal life. I lived for two years with a woman who would say she loved me while she fucked one of the men I despise most in my life. She would say she loved me and kiss me when I was vulnerable and, always, _always_ , in the morning she would run away. And she was the only one who stayed. The others just run for the hills when they can see me up close and you don't say anything to make me feel safe and stop counting the minutes until you wake up and leave too."

"Please… Open your birthday gift. I couldn't give it to you yesterday, but please… Please, don't cry, Amélia."

Spencer pulled a chair to sit beside her and rested his hand on her knee.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "Now you know the truth. I'm actually very insecure. It's not a very dignified trait to have." She cleaned her face with a napkin before carefully opening his gift.

It was a book. The first edition to "Uma Aprendizagem, ou O livro dos Prazeres", by Clarice Lispector. She had talked about it with him before, of how this book shaped a huge part of her beliefs in love. She also had told him that she had lost her copy, many years ago, when she moved to New York, and could never find another available in the U.S. Inside it, he had placed a page-marker he had made for her, with a picture of a yellow ipe and a field of Californian poppies. He had placed it strategically.

She hadn't said a word yet.

"Read for me," he asked. "Because I'll butcher the words."

She didn't answer him, but she started reading, doing voices for the characters and all.

“―Um dia eu fui de madrugada ao mar sozinha, não tinha mais ninguém na praia, eu entrei na água, só tinha um cachorro preto mas longe de mim!

Ele olhou-a com atenção, a princípio como se não entendesse que significado invulgar poderia haver naquela declaração emocionada. Afinal como se tivesse compreendido, perguntou devagar:

―Gostou?

―Gostei, respondeu com humildade, e de vergonha seus olhos se encheram de lágrimas que não caíam, só faziam com que parecessem duas poças plenas. Não, corrigiu-se depois, procurando o termo exato, não é que tenha gostado. É outra coisa.

―Melhor ou pior que gostar?

―Foi tão diferente que não posso comparar.

Ele examinou-a por um instante:

―Sei, disse depois.

E acrescentou simples..." [6]

"Eu te amo," Spencer interrupted her, knowing his accent was horrible, but Amélia raised her eyes from the page and he touched her face, brushing off a single tear that insisted on falling. "I can't say the rest in Portuguese. But in the English translation I bought, Ulisses says 'Your eyes, he said, entirely changing his tone, are confusing but your mouth has all the passion that exists in you and that you fear. Your face, Lóri, has a sphinx-like mystery: decipher me or I’ll devour you' [7]."

"Ela se surpreendeu de que também ele tivesse notado o que ela via de si mesma no espelho.

―Meu mistério é simples: eu não sei como estar viva," [8] Amélia answered, without needing to look at the page.

"That’s because you only know, or only knew, to be alive through the pain."

"É." [9]

"And you don’t know how to be alive through pleasure?"

"Quase que já. Era isso o que eu queria te dizer,” [10] she exhaled the last sentences in a barely audible whisper.

Spencer could feel his face burning in that moment. He had never said this to anyone, much less in a horrible attempt at Portuguese. He leaned in and kissed her lips softly, feeling his heart beating fast in his ears when she relaxed against his touch. He could feel her smile.

"My boss knows about us. I told her yesterday," he said.

Amélia let out another heavy sigh and her smile got bigger.

"I'm sorry for being so happy. Are you ok? Will they punish you?"

"No, not for now. But she asked us to wait a little longer before going public. Can you do that?"

She held the book against her chest, still smiling, and kissed him again.

"Anything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] "Thank you, Selena"  
> "You speak Spanish?"  
> "What do you mean? You didn't think I was a gringa, for sure!"  
> "I'm sorry! Of course you aren't a gringa, with your tanned skin! No, of course not. Where are you from, beautiful?"  
> "Brazil."  
> "Brazil? I thought you guys spoke Portuguese. Do you mind if I change here?"  
> "Not a problem. Yes, we speak Portuguese, but I studied Spanish besides English."  
> "I understand. I'm from Venezuela. I came to America two years ago, I wanted to marry with a rich gringo, but..."
> 
> [2] "I'm sorry, but I can't tell you. Listen, I wrote my number on this paper. If you need anything or you notice that some girl is missing, call me or text me, ok?"
> 
> [3] Selena is calling Mia "caballero", which is a masculine word that can be translated as "gentleman" or "knight". Here she said "A gentleman/knight, indeed."
> 
> [4] "Don't you worry, gentleman/knight."
> 
> [5] “I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.” [The Bell Jar](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bell_Jar)
> 
> [6] [The Book of Pleasures](https://www.amazon.com/Apprenticeship-Book-Pleasures-Clarice-Lispector/dp/0811230619/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=the+book+of+pleasure+clarice+lispector&qid=1615670206&sr=8-1) In this scene, Lóri is telling Ulisses that she bravely went to the ocean in the middle of the night, just for the kicks of it. And how she felt alive. They are the main characters, who are learning together how to be each other's lover.
> 
> [7] I have no fucking clue if that's how the book was translated. The translated editions are super rare and expensive and I did my own translation for this lol
> 
> [8] She was surprised with the fact that he also had noticed what she saw of herself in the mirror.  
> ―My mystery is simple: I don't know how to be alive.
> 
> [9] Yes.
> 
> [10] Almost. That was what I wanted to tell you.


	20. bury a friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is the dead, not the living, who make the longest demands.”  
> ― Sophocles, Antigone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags for this story have been updated, check them out and make sure that you're ok with the contents before going forward (they all refer to consensual sex acts performed between adults, tho).

During the past week, they had advanced their investigation. As much as someone can advance while walking in the dark. With no physical evidence, they were working with just their profile and reviewing all "older men" in Emma's life.

They had profiled Emma's killer as a highly intelligent individual, with extensive resources, who blended well with the other people in her life. He probably knew her already, since she was being so secretive with her friends about their relationship, and could be married, thus having a bigger need to keep their relationship a secret. Emma definitely wasn't his first kill, although he had never killed with this exact MO before. She could be his Debut under the spotlight or La Pièce de Résistance, the greatest triumph of his career. Choosing to leave her at Georgetown reinforced the theory that he knew her personally. The way he placed her ― lying naked on the ground with her tied hands joined on her chest as a mockery of prayer ― showed just how much he despised her and the people in her life. If Spencer was right and this was the same man who had killed ― or helped Joshua Marino kill ― Charlotte Bradford and Natalya Petrovna, targeting Emma Sweeney could be a personal vendetta against the FBI for not catching him before. For thinking that someone so dense like Marino could be responsible for his delicate work.

Marino had told Luke and JJ that he saw Amélia for the first time at Charlotte's funeral. However, they had reviewed all footage and pictures taken by paparazzi that day and Marino didn't appear a single time ― neither at the Cathedral nor at Amélia's old house. One hypothesis was that he misspoke and he meant he had seen _pictures_ of her, later, in the newspapers. Another, and a stronger one, was that his Master was there at the funeral and _he_ had been the one to see Amélia and target her.

He had also said that Amélia seemed lonely and fragile, and he wanted to talk to her to see what he could find out about the FBI's findings through her. Why he had thought that Amélia, a civilian, could help him with that, he didn't want to say. He had trashed her house because his plan was to stage a robbery gone wrong. It didn't even occur to him that Amélia could wake up and call the cops while he was at it. He had been drunk when he broke into her house. According to him, Marino needed to drink before getting violent, to "psych himself up". There was no way that Marino could have kidnapped, tied up, and tortured Natalya and Charlotte by himself, especially if he could only hurt women when he was drunk. Nevertheless, this wasn't enough to convince the ADA to void his confession and reopen the case.

With his slip up that Lucca was being taken care of, Penelope had taken a look at Camilla Russo's finances. Not only did she not live in Portsmouth anymore, having moved to a nice house in a nice suburb in Virginia and have a fresh 200,000 dollars in her accounts, but Lucca now had a trust on his name, with enough money to put him through whatever college he chose to go to. Penelope had been able to trace the money back to the same account in the Cayman Islands that paid Jack Walsh, but no further than that.

***

On Wednesday, Spencer paired up with Tara again and they drove to the suburbs to pay Camilla Russo another visit. Her house had a manicured lawn in front of it and, when Tara pressed the doorbell, the woman who opened the door looked nothing like the version of Camilla they had met at her trailer, all those months ago.

Not only had the dark circles under her eyes disappeared, but Camilla also had a new haircut and new clothes that made her look just like another suburban soccer mom. Penelope had informed them that she was back at school, studying for her GED, and working part-time at her son's school as an administrative assistant.

"Doctor Lewis, Doctor Reid, I wasn't expecting you." Her smile vanished when she opened the door for them.

"Hello, Camilla," Tara greeted her, gently. "We were hoping to have a talk with you today. It's my understanding that regular school hours are over and you won't have classes until 7 p.m., right?"

She checked her wrist watch. It was only 4:30, she had no reason to not talk to them.

"Fine. Please, get inside. I don't want my neighbors wondering why there are g-men at my doorstep."

Camilla's living room was now clean and neat, lit up by big windows. She signaled for Spencer and Tara to sit on the couch while she would get them some fresh coffee. Spencer heard steps coming down the stairs and, when he turned to look, he saw Lucca peeking at them from between the gaps in the wooden handrail. He had grown a few inches and gained some pounds since October.

"Hey Lucca," he said, with a small smile.

"Why are you here?" The boy asked, suspiciously.

"We came to check in on you and your mom." Spencer got up from the couch and walked towards the boy. His clothes also seemed new. "You seem to be doing a lot better now."

With the corner of his eye, Spencer saw Tara getting up and walking to the kitchen. Lucca gave him a happy smile.

"Yeah. Now I have my own bedroom and mom even gave me a magic kit for Christmas!"

"A magic kit?" Spencer leaned in closer to Lucca. "Oh, it seems like you have something stuck in your ear..."

With a quick flourish of his fingers, he made a quarter appear from behind Lucca's ear. The boy's face lit up and he let out a laugh.

"Wanna see my kit?!" Lucca asked, already getting up and running up the stairs.

Spencer went after him, hoping he could make the boy share things his mother would try to hide from Tara. Lucca's room had a window turned to the backyard's swing. His room looked like a typical 10 year-old boy's, with superhero posters and action figures. Lucca had run to his closet and came back with the magic kit, wearing a top hat and a cape.

"I'm Magic Boy, Doctor Strange's sidekick!" He said, gleefully. "Did you know that there will be a movie about him? He's my favorite superhero."

"Yeah? And why is that?" Spencer asked, leaning against the threshold.

"Because, with his magic powers, he can change reality," Lucca answered, fumbling with his kit. "I have no magic powers, but I can make a dove appear!" He shook his wand and an inflatable dove showed up on the end.

Spencer let out a laugh and clapped, as to which Lucca bowed to his captive audience.

"What would you do, if you could change reality?"

"Right now, I don't know. Everything I've always wanted is happening. _He_ isn't around anymore and mom is happy now. I have my own room and I don't wear clothes found in some donation boxes." The boy shrugged while he pulled several colorful tissues from his sleeve. "I guess I would give myself a nice dad."

Spencer understood his dreams in a way that Lucca would never know.

"Do you know what happened? How did you guys come to live here all of a sudden?" He asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"A guy in a suit showed up with Jack and they gave me a 20 dollar bill to go buy pizza. When I came back, they were gone and mom was crying on the couch and said we had won the lottery and everything would be fine. That was it." He finished with the tissues on his sleeve and made a fake rose appear on his hand. "Ta da!"

"You're very good at this, Lucca!" Spencer cheered and clapped. "When you say 'Jack', you mean Jack Walsh?"

"Who else?" He asked, starting to collect his things. "Show me how you did the thing with the quarter!"

"Now, Lucca, from one magician to the other," Spencer started saying, walking into the bedroom. "Before I reveal my secrets, tell me more about Jack. Did he come to see you guys again?"

Lucca opened his mouth to speak, but then they heard steps in the hallway and Camilla was barging into the room.

"What the hell do you think you're doing in my son's bedroom?!" She asked, with her face flushed in anger.

Tara was just behind her.

"I was just showing him my magic kit, mom!" Lucca pleaded with her.

She walked towards the boy and grabbed him by his arm.

"I already told you a million times, boy! You don't bring strange men to your bedroom, _ever_!" Camilla's voice was a shrill.

"Camilla, Doctor Reid was just talking with your son..." Tara tried to placate her.

"Are you a mom?!" Camilla snarled, turning to look at Spencer and Tara. There were tears welling up in her eyes. "Do you know what kind of _disgusting things_ men do to little kids who show their bedrooms to them?"

"I'm… so sorry," Spencer muttered, raising his hands at the sides of his body, to show her he wasn't a threat. "I didn't mean to make you worry about your son's safety. We're just checking in on you two..."

"I know _exactly_ what the two of you want here." She had put herself between Lucca and Spencer, as if the boy needed to be physically protected from them. "Get out! You're not welcome in my house anymore! I don't wanna talk to either of you!"

"Camilla..." Tara tried to reason with her.

"Get out or I will report you two! Get out!"

  
  


***

"Jack Walsh is a part of this somehow," Spencer told Tara as they drove away.

"Did Lucca tell you this? Because Camilla dodged all my questions until she finally confessed she had signed a NDA when she got the money and she couldn't tell me where it had come from." She asked, looking at him with the corner of her eye. "I think we should consult with a forensic accountant on this before anyone trying to approach Walsh."

"If Walsh is the middle man between our unsub and Marino as he appears to be, I think that we need to cover all of our bases before getting in touch with him. And find another way to connect them, so Camilla and Lucca aren't endangered."

"I just don't know how fast we will be able to do any of this, Reid, because, so far, we haven't found anything proving that this is in any way connected to an open case. And even less to the case we should be investigating at the moment," she said, sounding tired.

"Charlotte's list proved to be useful," he said, defensively.

"Was it? Because, so far, we have met men who knew her with different degrees of intimacy and they all have alibis or have closed off behind their lawyers and none of them seems to have even an ounce of _motive_ to have gone after Emma." They stayed in silence for a few minutes until Tara added, "I don't know, Reid. Perhaps we should take a closer look at Emma's professors. We could be missing another older man in her circle."

***

The wind howled outside the Sweeney's home and Mia could almost feel sorry for the reporters camping outside. Almost, in the moments when she forgot they were vultures hounding someone's wake.

She had decided to go to Emma's service, after the smallest burial ceremony, to pay her respects to her parents and say some kind words to them, as her old teacher. It had been a spur of the moment thing. Rachel had texted Mia asking if she was planning to go and, before she knew it, she was dressing herself in a long black wool dress and was driving to their house. The Sweeneys had invited Georgetown faculty members and students who had met Emma.

She wasn't a vulture, she told herself, crossing the street and walking to their house. She had been invited and she could provide some support to her students who happened to be there.

The house's living room was filled with people when she arrived. Mia had decided that going to the burial ceremony would be too much and she planned just to find Emma's parents, share some adorable story about her, pay her respects, and leave.

Mia was crossing the crowd towards Peter Sweeney ― she had already been informed by Professor MacLeish, who was also there, that Ava had gone straight to her bedroom after the burial _―_ when she saw Spencer across the room. He raised his eyebrows, surprised, and Mia realized she had forgotten to tell him she was going to the wake and he was on the case. Before she could think of anything, he vanished in the crowd again.

"Professor Ferreira, what a surprise to meet you here," a familiar voice came from behind her.

"Senator Hawthorne, good morning," she greeted him as she saw who it was. "Emma was my student last year. I thought it would be proper to show up."

"Naturally," he agreed absentmindedly.

"And what brings you here, Senator? In an election year, I thought you would have things scheduled for your Friday already." Hawthorne was now using his broad frame to help her cross the crowd of people.

"I'm actually friends with the family. I couldn't not be here in this moment of despair for them," Hawthorne said, stoically.

"You knew her too?" She asked.

"Grief is a weird thing, Professor. When someone we care about passes, we feel like, somehow, we should be blamed for it."

"I know what you mean. I lost my best friend five months ago and sometimes I feel guilty for moving on," she confessed.

"If you're talking about Charlotte Bradford, I'm sure, from our brief acquaintance and my friendship with her brother, that she would want you to live out your full potential, Professor." His face was very serious when he said these words.

"I didn't know you knew Charlotte," she said, surprised.

"Barely. Like ships in the night," he answered, dismissive. "I must leave you now, Professor. Election year and all that."

When Mia looked ahead again, she noticed that Peter Sweeney was just a few steps ahead of her. Beside him was agent Prentiss.

"Professor Ferreira," agent Prentiss greeted her.

"Agent Prentiss," Mia nodded back. She turned to Emma's father, in front of her. "Mr. Sweeney, I am Professor Amélia Ferreira, I was your daughter's teacher during last year's Spring semester. She was a lovely girl, I'm so sorry for your loss."

Peter Sweeney had dark circles under his blue eyes, and his voice was hoarse when he spoke.

"Thank you very much for your sentiments, Professor Ferreira."

Mia told a small anecdote of a day Emma had helped her fix some slides during class and Sweeney let out a sad laugh. She shook his hand and decided it was time to go back home and hug Salem.

***

"Did you know that she would be here today?" Emily asked him while she drove them to the Ambassador's official residence.

"No. I slept at home last night and she didn't mention this to me the last time we talked. She probably decided this morning to come." Spencer told her, playing with his keychain and drawing the patterns of the keys to Amélia's house with his fingers to soothe himself.

The UNSUB was probably at the wake. If he was right, if Emma's death had something to do with Amélia, seeing her there could have been a moment of glory and exhilaration to him. She had come to witness his work. If he was the same man who saw her for the first time at Charlotte's funeral and sent Joshua Marino to torture her, if he had been obsessed with her for months, he could interpret this as her accepting his "birthday gift". He couldn't tell Emily this. His theory that both cases were connected got slimmer by each passing day and she had already assigned Tara and Rossi to look into Emma's professors, as Tara had suggested. They were still going through Charlotte's suspect list because Penelope had found that New Year's Eve footage and Emma's friends were adamant in saying Emma's secret boyfriend was _older_.

Doctor White had gone to the BAU on Tuesday accompanied by his lawyer. He played golf with Peter Sweeney occasionally and claimed to barely know Emma. Above all, he had been on call Friday night and couldn't have left the hospital long enough to torture her for four hours and store her body in a freezer. As to providing a DNA sample, his lawyer refused for him.

Justin Miller was still out of the country, so they would have to wait for his return. The security footage from Judge Larsen and Senator Hawthorne's houses had shown exactly what they had informed the FBI: no cars going in or out during Friday night and Monday morning. Erik Stein also wasn't a viable suspect for Emma's murder. He had been in California since November, working on some new gadget his company would launch.

Ambassador Duvivier was their last hope of a breakthrough with that line of investigation. He had gone to Emma's burial and the wake, but he had priorly agreed with Emily that they would only interview him at his official residence.

Besides the Ambassador, Spencer had seen Representative Bradford and his wife, Senator Hawthorne, the Larsen couple, Chief Newlands, and Doctor White at some point that day. He tried not to keep looking at Amélia all the time, so Emily wouldn't regret her decision of letting him stay on the case, but he had seen her chatting with Senator Hawthorne, and Matthew and Rebecca Bradford, who had introduced her to Ambassador Duvivier.

He should keep his head cool and not think of how low on Amélia's back the Ambassador's hand had been when he met her or how he lingered against her cheek when kissing her, very European. He definitely shouldn't think about the fact that the Ambassador came from an old rich family in France, and owned a castle and a vineyard, and could, very well, pay Jack Walsh and Camilla Russo and anyone else to get what he wanted. He shouldn't focus too much on the memory that Duvivier seemed to have _smelled_ her when they were talking.

He was a professional. A trained agent. And not every creep who hired escorts and borderline sexually harassed women they barely knew was a serial killer. About only 1% of the murders committed every year are the responsibility of serial killers and the percentage of sleazy men walking the Earth was definitely way higher than this.

Therefore, he took a deep breath and got his mind back into the game ― all fears and wild theories involving Amélia were pushed to the dark anxious corners of his mind, where they should reside ― as Duvivier's personal assistant opened the door to his personal library. The Ambassador was even taller than Spencer, with a long nose, and green mischievous eyes on his oddly shaped face.

"Ah, Emily!" He said, putting off the cigarette he was smoking and walking towards her to kiss her face. "Il y a longtemps qu'on ne s'est pas vus! Comment tu vas? Et ta mère, elle va bien?" [1]

She flinched at his touch, almost imperceptibly.

"Hello, Louis, yes, it's been a minute," Emily said, in English, taking a step back away from him. "My mother is fine, as she always is. I hope you don't mind us talking in English today, as my colleague doesn't speak French."

"No, not at all." His English was as flawless as his smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Reid."

Duvivier offered his cigarette smelling hand for Spencer to shake, which he painstakingly took. At least the Ambassador seemed to reserve his kisses for women.

"You said on the phone that you wanted to talk to me about Emma Sweeney," Duvivier said, getting another cigarette from his carton.

Spencer made no effort to conceal his cough when the Ambassador lit it up. With an eyebrow raised in mockery, Duvivier walked to the library window and opened it. The Ambassador sat on the windowsill and blew his smoke outside, ignoring the freezing wind that now ravaged the room.

"If you want, I can lend you one, Emily," he said, pointing at the carton with his lightened up cigarette.

"No, thank you, I stopped years ago," she answered, moving away from the window.

"C'est dommage. Je ne comprends pas pourquoi on se prive de ces petits plaisirs de la vie," [2] he muttered with a sly smile on his lips.

"Emma Sweeney. Did you know her?" Spencer asked, feeling impatient around that man.

Duvivier's eyes left Emily for a moment and studied Spencer for a minute, smoking his cigarette, before answering his question.

"Yes. Her grandmother, Ava's mom, was friends with my mother in France, before she emigrated to America, and Ava has always been a friend of the French community. She was fun, Emma." He littered his ashes outside the window and his eyes were back at Emily when he spoke again. "Elle m'a fait penser à toi, ma petite sauvage." [3]

As a contrast to the tenderness on Duvivier's face and tone, a shiver ran through Emily's body and Spencer supposed that it had nothing to do with the cold room.

"How would you describe your relationship with Emma, Excellency?" Spencer tried to draw Duvivier's attention back to him.

He looked almost bored at Spencer.

"Pleasant," he said, before taking in another drag.

"At Jim Ellison's New Year's Eve party, did you two talk?" Spencer asked. His face was going numb with the wind.

"We talked very little. We danced very much, though," Duvivier had a predatory smile on his lips. "Comme toi, elle a toujours aimé s'amuser," [4] he turned to look at Emily once more.

Impulsively, Spencer took one step between Emily and the Ambassador. He had no idea what had happened between them or what he was saying, but Emily was never stumped around suspects and it had been minutes since she had said anything.

"Did Emma mention to you any men in her life? Any boyfriends?" Spencer said.

Duvivier let out a raspy laugh.

"She was more elegant than that."

"How come?" Spencer asked.

"Why would she advertise the competition to me?"

This sentence shifted the air around him, charged with electricity. Duvivier knew he had diplomatic immunity to protect him against almost every possible thing and he was toying with them. Baiting them.

"Where were you between the hours of 1 and 6 a.m. on Friday, the 15th, and 4 and 6 a.m. on Monday, the 18th?" Emily finally spoke, harsh.

"Ma petite sauvage, tu sais que je n'ai pas besoin de répondre à ça." [5] He put out his second cigarette and got up from the windowsill, closing the window behind him and letting the stub fall at his feet. "I think that's enough for today, agents." He walked towards Emily and spoke very quietly at her: "Se revoir dans une bibliothèque ça rappelle de bons souvenirs, n'est-ce pas? [6] Come. Let me escort you out, Emily."

Spencer took the chance on Duvivier being too disgustingly distracted with Emily's presence and pretended to stay behind to tie up his Converse. When they were down the hall, he took an evidence bag from his inner pocket and stole the cigarette stub the Ambassador had littered on the floor.

***

He reached her as she was getting into her car. Emily didn't even buckle up her seatbelt when she let her head fall on the steering wheel, almost hyperventilating.

"Em, hey, Em, what happened?" He didn't want to touch her, didn't want to make her feel even more violated than whatever memories Duvivier had conjured up. "Emily?"

"He hurt her," she said, between her teeth. "He hurt Emma."

She made an angry sound and punched the wheel, straightening herself up. Then she turned to look at the window, chewing on her thumbnail. Spencer stayed in silence with her for a while.

"Do you want me to drive?" He asked, at last.

She ran a hand over her face and buckled up. Her hands were shaking.

"No. Driving will do me good. Especially because now we have to build a case against a fucking Ambassador with nothing to start on." She started up the car.

After the official residence was just a small shadow in the rearview mirror, Spencer pulled the sealed evidence bag from his pocket and waved it in front of Emily's eyes.

"I wouldn't say 'nothing', since we got his DNA."

***

Emily was sitting by herself in her darkened office when Spencer's head peeked up through her half-closed door.

"Hey, got a minute?" He asked.

She let out a deep sigh, but signaled him to get inside. Instead of looking at him, Emily thought that the way the ice moved on her vodka glass was a more interesting object of contemplation. She heard the sounds of the door closing after him and Spencer's lean body plopping on her couch.

"This one is probably the worst we've had in a while," he said, contemplative.

"Yeah?" She chuckled. "Tell me about it."

"What are you going to do?"

"About what?" She asked him back, defensive.

"About your personal connection to our prime suspect." Upon hearing his words, she raised her eyes to shoot daggers at him. Spencer took a quick look at her face and went back to stare at the ceiling.

"I have no personal connection to the French Ambassador." This sentence sounded weak even to her ears.

"Emily, come on. I'm not in a position to judge you. I'm not judging you. I have spent the rest of the day with our team scouring every nook and cranny of Duvivier's life, trying to find a shred of evidence to connect him to Emma's death, or Charlotte and Natalya. I will keep working tomorrow, we all are." He straightened himself to look straight at her. "But I can't pretend that I wasn't there earlier today."

Emily had already made a mess of her fingernails since that afternoon, so she chewed on her cuticle to avoid saying anything. She was a 45-year-old FBI agent, the Chief Unit to the BAU. She had faced terrorists, serial killers, the most horrible people to walk this Earth. She had faked her own death, worked with the Interpol, and survived every possible obstacle. Emily Prentiss was a strong woman, this had always been a defining trait of herself.

That was why she refused to show any reaction in front of her team when Louis' name appeared on that list. Why she pushed down the bile that came up her throat when she called his assistant to schedule a meeting. Why she took deep breaths when the smell of his French cigarettes, that she could never ever forget, assaulted her nose. She had no personal relationship with Louis Duvivier. He was a ghost, someone who had stayed thirty years in her past.

"Every cell in the human body is renewed after seven years," she started saying some generic platitude she had once read somewhere on the internet. "I have had four entire bodies that he had never touched… So why am I still shaking?"

"I don't know where you got that data, but that's imprecise. Brain cells don't get 'changed' periodically..." Spencer started saying.

Emily raised a hand to stop him.

"Spencer, please, I'm really not interested in the science behind this metaphor," she groaned, exhausted.

He frowned.

"No, but I have a point in my disagreement. If we work with the hypothesis that we can find the precise cells of a given trauma on someone's body, why would we assume that the part of you that was hurt twenty-eight years ago isn't still alive inside you?" He was speaking in his usual Socratical tone, but Emily couldn't deny the tenderness in his words.

"It was thirty years ago, but thanks. Yeah, you have a point." She reclined on the chair, feeling the tears prickling in the corners of her eyes. And then she laughed. "You probably think that I'm some sorry victim. I'm making this a way bigger deal than it actually was, to be honest."

"I highly doubt it, Emily. But you really don't have to tell me. You should talk to someone, but it doesn't have to be me."

"I don't think he killed Natalya or Charlotte," she said.

"And why is that?" Spencer asked, softly.

There was a bitter taste on her tongue and Emily chewed on one of her ice cubes to make the nausea go away.

"They were… too old, for him." She got up to refill her glass, even though she knew it wasn't advised. "Emma, on the other hand… Emma was 21, but she didn't look older than 17 in her pictures."

She heard Spencer let out a long breath, but she didn't turn to look at him.

"She probably thought she had the world all figured out. He told her she was _mature for her age_ , treated her like the adult she craved so hard to be." Perhaps she used too much force to rest the bottle again on the cabinet. It didn't break, though. Just made a loud sound. "He was her friend for a while. Listened to her, seemed interested in her dilemmas… And perhaps she fought him too hard last Friday, perhaps he forced himself on her and then she threatened to tell someone… La petite sauvage," Emily almost spat the last words that left her mouth. "Do you know what his pet name means?"

"No," Spencer said.

"The little wild girl, the little savage girl. _Untamed and provocative_." She laughed again because her eyes stung too much. The vodka was velvety in her mouth and smelled almost like ether. She could pretend it would cleanse her memory.

When she turned to finally look at him, Spencer's usually gentle face was contracted in angry lines and he breathed hard through his nose. He had his closed fist pressed against his mouth while he tried to keep his cool. She drank the rest of her drink and, encouraged by the alcohol, decided that it was better to rip off that old band-aid barely covering a necrotic wound and tell it, after all. If there was a man in her life that could listen to it, this man was Spencer.

"My mother was stationed in France when I was thirteen. I liked it, as much as I could like being anywhere back then. I started smoking cigarettes and would barely try to disguise it, desperate to see what it would take ‘til someone finally caught me. I would leave ashes on the windowsills and used clothes with cigarette burns. I would walk around smelling like an ashtray and no one would say a thing. Then I started stealing booze from my parents' cabinets. Refilling bottles with tea and water and waiting for the moment when someone would scream at me, punish me… See me at some moment. It was useless." She snorted and sat on her chair again, looking at Spencer and feeling herself taken by a strange nostalgia for such a bleak time in her life. "To add to all of this I was also taken by these unexplainable feelings for some of my friends. Our relationships were all consuming, intense, desperate. I would count the minutes during the weekends to when I would go back to my all-girls catholic school again just so I could let them braid my hair or show them the nihilistic love poems I would write to boys that, to be honest, I found very boring. Heteronormativity, am I right?" She raised her empty glass in a mockery of a toast and contemplated how bad it would be to have a third drink.

"I'll drive you home," Spencer said, answering the question she didn't ask. "I can bring you to work tomorrow too, you don't need to worry. Just promise me you will have a bunch of water on the ride home today."

"You got yourself a deal, boy genius." Emily winked at him and got up to get the bottle again. "So… Where was I? Ah, yes, I was telling you my terrible tale of a highly privileged baby lesbian whose parents couldn't bother with her." She poured herself a double, since Spencer would drive her home and she would have the morning off to nurse her hangover. "And then I met Louis. His father was the French Minister of Foreign Affairs, his mother was a huge commercial partner with the U.S. Their champagne is kind of famous in some circles. He was seven years older than me and all the girls in my school thought he was so _charmant_ , so I was walking in the clouds when he noticed me. I mean, he couldn't be more unappealing to me by himself, but… He would come to pick me up after school on his bike and we would ride around Paris. I was only fourteen, so this was… It was great, for a while. Riding with him and my friends to the shore in the Summer in his convertible… It was the 1980s in France, so no one asked anything about a grown man hanging with a bunch of teenage kids. No one thought it was weird that he gave us booze and would like to lie on the beach with us in our bikinis. In hindsight, it was pretty obvious, huh?"

"You had no way to know." His voice was tense, harsh. She knew it wasn't against her.

"I know. Thanks. No, I had no way to know, but I thought that I knew _everything_ . He would read Baudelaire with me and take me to the Père Lachaise to look at the graves and found my goth aesthetic _endearing_ . I felt seen. Validated." It had been a while since she had taken a sip, so she drank before getting to the last part. The worst part. "My mom threw a 15-year-old birthday party to me, but she only invited the people _she_ wanted there. Only her friends and important peers. The only 'friend' I had there was Louis and even he was too engrossed with the other adults to pay attention to me, he had just started his diplomatic career and he would say he would become Ambassador one day. Well, good for him, I guess."

They stayed in silence for a while. In all the languages Emily could speak fluently, the words escaped her to describe exactly what had happened on her birthday. It seemed so silly to say it like that out loud, like her most hidden secret. And it was no big deal. It was nothing. Nothing had happened. Not really. Who was she to call herself _a victim_?

"I drank a lot of champagne that day and didn't even bother to hide it. At some point, I was so frustrated and angry at feeling invisible that I stole a bottle and ran to the official residence's library to drink myself to oblivion alone. I knew my mom would give me grief if she saw me climbing the stairs to my room, so I thought the library would be safe." She snickered, bitter, at the word. "I don't know how long he waited to follow me into the room. He closed the door behind him and approached, talking to me like a friend. Back then, I loved his secret name for me. I felt validated in my rebellion when he called me a 'savage'. He took some sips from my bottle, told me we were sharing a secret. That he was enabling my bad manners and that I hadn't thanked him properly for my birthday present. I didn't understand at first. And then he pressed me against the bookshelves and I could… I could _feel him_. The bottle fell on the ground and broke and all I could think was 'my mom is going to kill me if I let champagne spill on her books'."

She felt like she had run for hours when she stopped speaking and looked at Spencer. His face was blurry. Emily touched her cheeks and realized she had been crying. For how long?

"I said no. I remember having said no while he ruined my first kiss and slipped his hand under my dress. And he… He laughed. He said I didn't have to put up such a fight to defend my honor. He was a gentleman and would never share what I had done with him in the library. What _I_ had done _with him_." Her voice broke and she hid her face in her arms.

"You're safe now, Emily." Spencer's voice came from closer than she had expected.

When she raised her head, she saw that he was crouching near her chair, without touching her.

"But Emma wasn't!" She choked out. "My father… My father opened the door to the library and took me away from the party. I wasn't even grounded, but we left France before Christmas and I knew… I knew it was my fault!" Emily was openly crying now. "It's my fault! It's my fault!"

Unconsciously, she started to scratch her neck with her fingers. If she hadn't already ruined her nails, there would be a trail of blood on her marble skin. She only noticed what she was doing when Spencer held her hands and pulled them away.

"If we met a young girl who never reported her abuser and she said the same things you're saying to me now, would you tell her it was her fault that other girls got hurt?" He asked, very seriously.

"That's not the same..." She complained, stubborn.

"If we met a young girl who never reported her abuser and she said the same things you're saying to me now, would you tell her it was her fault that other girls got hurt?" He repeated the question, unfazed.

"No," Emily grunted.

"Whose fault is it, then?"

This was probably the longest time that Spencer had ever taken the initiative to hold her hands.

"Emily, whose fault is it?" He pressed her.

"His," she whispered.

"Yes, you're right. It's his fault. And I don't care if he has diplomatic immunity, we're going to find a way to make Emma be the last girl this creep has ever hurt, do you hear me?"

Emily nodded, feeling another wave of tears coming. Even though she knew he didn't like physical demonstrations of affection, Spencer let her hold his waist and cry on his shirt until she calmed down while he patted the top of her head.

***

Mia was lying in bed, absorbed in her book and listening to her music when she heard Spencer's steps in the living room. He had sent her a text letting her know he would sleep there, but that he would have to go to a meeting before going home. Apparently, his day had been pure hell.

Her day had been ok, as much as a day that starts with a funeral can be. Matt and Becky had insisted that she grab lunch with them and Becky couldn't stop talking about their costumes and how they were going as Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. Mia bit her tongue to swallow her remark on the destiny of the characters they were choosing to hommage. Her own costume was doing well. She had had a fitting that week and the designer, a trans Guatemalan woman that had found her path to legal residency with the help of No Borders a couple of years ago, was giving life to the vision they had discussed. They had finally nailed the final details with the string quartet that would open for _Florence and The Machine_ playing orchestral covers of pop songs, the Smithsonian had shown them their security scheme for the guests and the auction items, everything was going smoothly. After lunch, Mia drove to No Borders for a meeting with Daniel and Eleanor, that ended up being more of a happy hour where Ellie shared her insanely huge wedding plans with them.

Spencer grunted as he walked into the bedroom and let his body fall face down on the bed. Mia closed her book and scooted closer to him, rubbing a hand between his shoulder blades.

"That bad, huh?" She asked, gently.

He grunted again, this time in agreement. Mia kept petting him and making shushing sounds for a while. Salem had left the extra pillow that he and Spencer shared on Mia's bed and joined her on her mission to make the tall blonde gringo feel better. The cat walked on his back, spun in the same place a few times, and settled on his lower back, purring.

"Why don't you go to the bathroom and take a long bath before coming to bed?" Mia was now scratching his head as if he, too, were her cat.

"Can't. Salem," was his answer.

Mia laughed.

"Did you eat dinner?"

"Food is overrated," Spencer turned his head to the side to look at her with his big hazel eyes, pleading like a puppy.

"Are you fishing to see if I'll spoil you today?" Mia asked, endeared.

"Perhaps..." He attempted to smile when she pushed his hair out of his face.

"Do you want me to order that chicken tikka masala and rice for you while you're soaking in the tub?" She dove in quickly to kiss his brow.

His eyes fluttered close.

"Hm… Sounds perfect..." He said, dreamily.

Mia gave one more kiss on his face before getting up. She read some more of her book while she waited for the food to arrive, determined in figuring out what, after all, had happened to Rachel in "Everything I Never Told You" and what would happen to her family. It was ironic that, even when she was living the real life version of such a horrible event, mystery novels would still soothe her.

She was plating the food, after paying and generously tipping the delivery guy, when Spencer embraced her by her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder and just pressed his body against her in silence while she kept doing her task. Mia liked the smell of his shampoo and soap, that now he would keep beside her things in her suite. When she had finished assembling the table, she stopped walking and turned in his arms to hold him back. His heartbeat soothed her more than any drug.

"I need to ask you to do something and you can't ask me why," he muttered against her hair.

"I don't like this game, Spencer," she said, but her hands were drawing circles on his lower back.

"It's really important, please."

"Fine. Ask me and I'll consider your request."

"You're so stubborn..." He grunted and squeezed her harder against his torso. Mia let out a laugh. "No, I'm serious." He let go of her and took a step back to look into her eyes. Mia did her best to look serious too. "Please, do not go near Ambassador Duvivier again."

She frowned and let out a short laugh.

"What the hell, Spencer? Ambassador Duvivier will be at my gala, he's friends with Matt. How am I supposed to avoid this man?"

He took a deep breath.

"Just… Just don't be alone with him then, Amélia."

"Wha..." She was blinking, confused, for an instant. "Wait a minute, are you jealous or worried? Should I be worried?"

He let go of her shoulders and took another step back.

"Jealous? Why should I..."

"I don't know, you tell me. I just met this guy today, you watched the situation in your 'official capacities'," she made air quotes to emphasize what she was saying, "and now you come into my place demanding me to not see him again? And saying I can't ask you questions?"

"I'm not jealous!" He said, defensively. "I was there in my official capacities, you showed up out of nowhere, without even giving me a warning, and, yes, I did see the way he touched you today, but this is not what this is about."

"The way he touched me today?" Mia let out an angry laugh. "He's a handsy creep, Spencer, I deal with dozens of men like this _every day_. I'm a big girl, I don't need my cop boyfriend telling me who I can or can't be alone with." She crossed the table and sat in front of the plate she had made for herself. "Your food is getting cold."

"I'm _not a cop_ ," he said between his teeth, frustrated. "And he's not just a handsy creep, Amélia!"

Mia let her fork fall on her plate with a clattering sound and her eyes shot up to look at him.

"Is he…?" She asked.

"Please, don't ask me hard questions. Just… Just believe me and promise you won't be alone with him, please," he said, in a pained tone.

"Fine," she said, at least. "I don't like this. I don't wanna keep playing this game with you, but _fine_. This time I'll agree, for your peace of mind."

They ate in silence for a while until he spoke again.

"Thank you. For taking care of me and for listening to my seemingly absurd request. Please, believe when I say that I'm not trying to control your life or anything," he said, tired and apologetic.

"I do believe you," she whispered, surprised with the fact that this was the truth.

They switched to lighter conversation, discussing the latest books they were reading and Mia's plans for the gala.

"I figured out a way you can go, if you want," she said, sheepishly, while they were brushing their teeth before going to bed.

"To the party?" He asked, after rinsing his mouth. "Amélia, we really shouldn't be seen together in public before this is over..."

She crossed her arms on her chest and raised her eyebrow at him.

"Do you want to go or not? Because I told you: I figured out a way."

"Fine, tell me your schemes then, Professor Ferreira," he laced her by her waist and pulled her to walk entangled with him to the bed.

"The way you're saying it seems like I'm Professor Moriarty or something," Mia laughed.

"Yes, that's pretty much the idea." They fell together over the sheets and Mia let out an even bigger laugh.

"I convinced Rebecca that it would be good publicity for her and Matt to invite the whole team of agents who arrested the man who killed Charlie." Her smile faded when she said the words out loud. It felt almost cheap to use Charlie's death like this, to have her boyfriend with her. Manipulating Becky didn't feel so bad as confessing it to Spencer. "Ugh, I'm a horrible person," she whispered, hiding her face in his pj's shirt.

"No, you're not a horrible person. Why are you saying this?" He tried to comfort her.

"Yes, I am. I have been finding excuses and more excuses to betray everything that I believe in since Charlie died. I am becoming someone I don't even recognize, with charity balls, ass kissing, and _manipulating_ people… What is this money doing to me?" She rolled on the bed away from him, pulling the covers tight around her body.

"Hey, hey, Amélia. No shutting the other out, remember?" He pulled her back to him again and she looked at his face, pouting. "You know you don't _have_ to keep this money, right? You don't have to be like those people and live like them."

She ran her index finger over his arched brows and delicate nose, finding out that the movement of tracing his almost androgynous features eased her mind.

"I know. I still don't know what I want," she whispered. "Besides you. I want you."

He smiled and kissed the corner of her mouth.

"Good, because I have no plans of leaving. And, answering your question, yes, I would love to go to your party, sweetheart. And thank you for inviting my friends too, even if it's with ulterior motives."

He kissed her fully on the lips and Mia, in spite of her decision to keep pouting, felt herself melt against his touch.

"I'm really tired today," he said, pulling himself away from her.

As if he had summoned it, Mia yawned.

"To be completely honest? I am too," she said, feeling sluggish.

To her surprise, Spencer blushed deeply.

"I… I had a dream last night..." He said, avoiding her eyes. "Not today, because I'm really tired, but, after today, I… Hm, there's a thing I wanted to try."

"Oooh, it's a sex thing?" Mia asked, feeling herself becoming more awake almost immediately. Spencer nodded, blushing even harder. "Vamos, galego, say it!"

She rolled them on the bed, climbing on top of Spencer, curious. He cleared his throat and averted his eyes, letting his fingers drum on her thighs for a few seconds.

"We have… We have had, hm, _moments_ where you take… Take the lead. And we have never… never exactly discussed it..." Mia was endeared by his embarrassed expression while he tried to articulate what he wanted. She wasn't going to interrupt him, knowing how to express his desires was a very important part in Spencer's personal journey and their own relationship. "I… I really like it, when we roleplay." He cleaned his throat and stayed in silence for a while.

"Spencer… You said you had a specific fantasy you wanted to try?" She leaned in over him, softly kissing his jaw and caressing his shoulders.

"Y-yes. I do. I actually do. Promise you won't laugh?" He asked, worried.

"Babe, one day remind me to tell you all the weird sex things I have already done in this life. But, yes, I do promise. I may not want to try it, but I won't make fun of you, no matter what you say."

"OK," he took a deep breath and Mia just kept nuzzling his neck, trying to comfort him, knowing that letting him not have eye contact was the best policy for this. "I want you to tie me up and… and _use me_."

She quickly raised her head, very interested.

"Use you?" She asked, puzzled. He nodded vigorously. "As in: treat you like my very submissive boy-toy who exists only to give me pleasure and is basically a human dildo?"

"Yes," he said, in a strangled tone.

His fingers dug hard impressions on the muscles of her thighs and she felt a very specific part of his anatomy twitch under her body. His pupils were completely blown.

"Hard limits?" Mia asked.

"Uh… I don't want to feel any serious pain, not more than normal." His eyes were roaming her face, and he seemed incredulous that she was interested. "No… No excrements either. Or blood. And, uh… I… I don't… Hm..." He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. "It's so stupid, but… Can you… Can you praise me?"

"Oh, my dear, dear galego," she showered his face with kisses. "My pet, my love. Of course I can praise you. I know you will be so good to me."

He held her face in his hands and kissed her, running his tongue against hers. Mia kissed him back, gently running her nails on his stomach under his shirt, and squirmed against him when she felt his erection pressing her thigh. Mia then took a fistfull of his hair by his nape and pulled him away from her. His breath was shallow and his face was flushed.

"I remember someone saying they were very tired..." She tutted, wagging a finger on his face.

"I now know the errors of my ways, Ames," he said and tried to kiss her again, but Mia held him in place.

Spencer let out a whimper and relaxed against her hand.

"Good things come to those who wait." Just to torture him a little more, Mia rubbed herself against him a little. Spencer bucked his hips to match her pace and it took every ounce of her control to not rip his clothes then and there. "Stop it immediately," she commanded.

He went still underneath her. Mia had a huge smile on her face to see her big FBI boyfriend at her mercy in her hands. She tugged a little on his hair, just because she could. She couldn't resist the temptation to press two fingers of hers against his lips and relished on the surprise that Spencer gladly sucked them.

"Tell me, pet," she started saying, with a sultry voice. "When you used this pretty little mouth of yours to suck cock…" He moaned against her fingers, still sucking her. "Were you a spitter?"

She took her spit coated fingers out of his mouth and dragged them through his chin, so he could speak. His eyes were dark and shiny when he looked at her through his lashes.

"No, Mistress," he answered, reverently.

Mia's heart soared on her chest with the spontaneous honorific.

"Good," she praised. "I don't intend to put a condom on you tomorrow, do you have any objections?"

She could see that brilliant mind of his running the scenarios she had imagined that could result from the combination of her last questions. His cock got harder against her ass. Mia ignored it, even though she was soaked.

"No, Mistress. Nothing to object. My only wish is to serve you."

"Safe words?"

"Green, everything is alright. Yellow, slow down or redirect. Red, stop what you're doing. And 'Nevada', stop everything and go into aftercare," he recited, as if he had memorized from some BDSM manual. He probably had.

"Neat. Good night, then, babe," Mia let go of his hair, kissed him briefly on the lips, and got out of his lap, stretching to turn off the lights in the room, and lay down on her side of the bed with her back turned to him.

"Wait, what? You can't leave me like this!" He complained, spooning her and letting her feel his hard-on.

Mia theatrically yawned, stretched her arms, and gently patted his arm.

"I'm so, so tired now, my love. But, don't worry, if you behave tonight, you will be thoroughly rewarded tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] "Long time no see! How are you doing? And your mother, is she well?"  
> [2] "Such a shame. I never understood why people deprive themselves of the little pleasures in life."  
> [3] "She reminded me of you, my little savage girl."  
> [4] "Like you, she always loved to have fun."  
> [5] "My little savage girl, you know that I don't need to answer that to you."  
> [6] "Us meeting again in a library brings up some good memories, doesn't it?"
> 
> Author's Notes:
> 
> This chapter was hard. It's shorter because it's more intense. At least it felt like this to me. We don't know much about Emily's childhood and teen years from canon, besides that she felt neglected and acted out in response. This is usually a perfect storm for groomers and other predators, like Louis.  
> If anything like this ever happened to you, you're not alone. It wasn't your fault. If they harmed other people after or before hurting you, it's also not your fault. I hope you can find people in your life that cherish you, make you feel seen, and help you heal your wounds. It was not your fault.  
> Also, on a more positive note, LESBIAN EMILY! I NEEDED TO MAKE MY HEADCANON EXPLICIT HERE.


End file.
